


No Second Acts

by Megkips, Soodonim



Series: If Not Alexander, then Diogenes [1]
Category: Fate/Zero
Genre: Academia, Ambition is a hell of a motivator, Critiquing Corrupt Systems, Gen, Mage politics, Mages behaving badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:34:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megkips/pseuds/Megkips, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soodonim/pseuds/Soodonim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Waver Velvet becomes Lord El-Melloi II.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Second Acts

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that as the Lord El-Melloi II Case Files continue to come out and as the English translations are done, parts of this series will no longer be in line with continuity. There are no plans to update to reflect new information, and this series will remain as is, to speak to an understanding of Nasuverse and an interpretation of Waver that existed based on what was available at the time these pieces were written. This statement holds true especially for this work, where we now do have exact information on how Waver gained both his title and his position as a professor.

There is a stranger standing on the sidewalk within the view of the Mackenzie house, surveying the ravaged face of Fuyuki. Waver Velvet knows very well that the only strangers in Fuyuki over the course of the past few months have been aid workers and government officials - the flood of media has long since come and gone - but the man looks like neither. He’s probably just a lost tourist, albeit a fantastically placid one, and Waver has already written him off when the man glances to his approach and smiles thinly. “Mr. Velvet. There you are.”

The stranger’s voice floods the space between them in a moment of prickling nostalgia. He’s speaking English. He has a London accent with an Estuary tinge, though Waver is not sure why he’s bothering to narrow it down so precisely when there’s a stranger who just spoke his name. Who _keeps speaking,_ even as he’s staring and struggling to dredge up even a yelp of annoyance.

“It’s a good thing for us that the registrar is a Nuada-Re.” The tourist pockets his hands and turns, with a slowness that is part deliberation and part middle-aged paunch, head inclined down and eyes lifted in a look of mocking faux-sympathy. “Not too bright sometimes, are you?”

“That--!” _That was a private phone call!_ is an inane protest, and so is its attendant outrage. It assumes that anything is secure or sacred at Clock Tower. Waver still flushes with anger, and the first word still jumps from his throat before he holds his tongue, long enough to swallow down the rest and manage something marginally more intelligent. “Ngh. Who are you?” Waver demands instead, more firmly than he feels.

“You can call me Bryce,” Bryce offers, straightening in an automatic sort of way - not that it changes that expression of bored, half-smiling condescension.

Waver swallows, naked fist balling tensely at his side. “And your family name?”

“Archibald.”

The sound washes out of the world, for a moment. Waver has the strange feeling of moving his own head in a slow, even nod, of setting his teeth so they did not quaver and click. Maybe it is because his stiffness shows, or maybe it is the way the line of his jaw tightens, because Bryce is now grinning - a lopsided and passionless expression with too many canines and too little brightness.

“And you’re here why?” It comes out quiet and flat, the way everything had sounded in the cooled ruins after the end of the war, muffled by ash and made colorless by space swept dry of prana.

Bryce shrugs a thick shoulder, as if to answer who can say? The humor leaves his face, though nothing much comes forward to replace it. “If I said it was for revenge?”

“Then I would fight you.” The words come out without even a moment’s thought, and something intangible shifts in the echoing spaces of Waver’s circuits, ready to snap open.

“Out here, in the open.”

“Yes.”

“Without knowing a thing about me.”

“Yes.”

“Ff-fft--!” Bryce doesn’t laugh, but the sound might have been something close, if Bryce had not killed it between his lip and his teeth. He shivers forward a little with the force of it, and looks back up smiling once more, keener if no kinder. “You’re just as bad as I thought.” For the first time, his eyes crinkle, and he slouches to one side, digging through his pockets and then tossing something down at Waver’s feet. Index cards in a binder clip. Waver is sure of it, though he does not dare to look down for more than a second, lest he be caught off guard. Bryce turns to Waver with a lazy tip of his head.

“Cheers,” he says before disappearing around the corner.

Waver stoops cautiously, lifting the packet of cards and flipping through it, checking for sigils or magical resonance. They are unremarkable in that respect, but he still hesitates to read them, and after a moment’s deliberation tucks them firmly into his bag before resuming his walk. There is nothing lost by waiting to look at them until he’s home and behind his own defense wards.

***

If the cards are a call to war, they are strange and impossibly-coded. Each one, typed in awkward, blocky font that might be from a typewriter rather than a computer, contain a few lines comprised of nothing but brief contact information. The head of spiritual evocation at Clock Tower, with phone number, office hours and what looks to be a small bibliography of work. Margaret Archibald, phone number only. Bryce Archibald, with a London phone number, a phone number in Tokyo and an address in Fuyuki. Waver knows that street, and that it is on the far side of the river, but he takes no comfort in the distance. Bryce’s appearance is a good enough indicator that the Archibald family knows where Waver lives, sending Waver right back to the Grail War and Kayneth’s precise description of how he was going to hold Waver accountable for stealing his summoning artifact.

The memory drives Waver upstairs to his room, where all the defense spells that protect the Mackenzie house lie. Once plopped on the floor, he rolls up the carpet in the middle of the room, revealing a circle of wards that glow faintly in the afternoon sun. Waver runs his fingers over the lines, assessing their strength, then gets up to rummage around the bedroom for the sharpie marker he always uses when reinforcing the house’s defense field. Slowly, he begins to trace over the glowing lines, applying pressure as well as prana through the tip of the marker and drawing - just slightly - on the little presence of Rider that still lingers in air nearly seven months afterwards. When Waver finishes, the circle glows a brilliant white, but Waver feels no relief. Sitting and drawing circles in his room feels like hiding behind Rider’s coat again. Absently, he reaches for the index cards, considering all the public plazas and parks of Fuyuki. Waver has little advantage against the Archibald family - not only are they old magic, they are old English, capable of tracing their line back to the Norman Invasion when the Archambaults stood at the side of William the Conqueror. 

He picks his battleground carefully, where the leylines are weak and the population of Fuyuki treads. With that decided, Waver finds the cordless phone in his room and call the number listed alongside Bryce’s Fuyuki residence. An answering machine picks it up, and Waver offers up a small thankful prayer for it after he leaves a message informing Bryce that if there is to be any further discussion, he can meet Waver at the Fuyuki City train station at noon tomorrow.

***

Waver arrives at the train station the next day fifteen minutes before Bryce is due to show up, if he is to arrive at all. It is ample time for Waver to survey the station and plot out potential routes for fleeing, good places to dive towards and take cover if the meeting comes to blows and rehearse responses to anything that Bryce might say. The whole matter is too delicate to let his actions rely on improvisation.

At five minutes before the meeting time, Bryce himself appears. There’s something to the station that only amplifies the unassuming look of him, from the way his eyes follow the occasional figure in the lazy foot traffic to the vending machine bottle of tea he is nursing. His eyes light on Waver without much effort, and he pauses several yards away, lifting his bottle in a silent sort of mockingly-solemn toast before taking another pull. 

To try and read into the gesture would be folly, so Waver does not waste the effort. He remains where he is, standing ramrod straight and hands in the pockets of his trousers, knowing that forcing Bryce to approach him is all the posturing he can manage. For several moments it seems utterly ineffectual, as Bryce appears all too content to work at his tea in the cluttered noise of the area before the platforms. But after a few minutes the tea is gone, and the older mage saunters up, and then directly past Waver to deposit the bottle in the bin not much further on.

“Polite of you to stand for inspection, but I don’t think we’re quite allied,” he comments dryly, dusting off his hands and the residual condensation from the chilled bottle.

The smartassed reply is to remind Bryce of yesterday’s comment concerning revenge. Waver twists it into something more open-ended, and makes sure the delivery is as neutral as possible. “As if that’s a possibility.”

That earns a lifted eyebrow, and an expression that could probably be called innocent on another face. “Wouldn’t it be?”

“Being on the receiving end of threats from two members of your family does not make for a persuasive argument.”

“Two.” _That is a serious matter indeed_ , Bryce’s effect says, though clearer still is a mild curiosity regarding a claim. “And which two would that be?”

“Yesterday’s brief encounter,” which Waver is sure could be seen as more posturing rather than something genuine, but he will take no chances with Archibalds speaking of revenge. “To say nothing of your house’s ninth head and his eloquence on the matter.”

“I hope Kayneth posed you with something stronger than a rhetorical question.”

“Verbatim?” Waver says, feeling his hands clench in his trouser’s pockets. “‘Let me give you some extra tutorials. The true meaning of the slaughter between magi - I will pass the terror and the pain of the kill onto you without any reservation. You should be proud.’ It was quite a thing to hear from a professor’s mouth.” The bitterness in his voice does not surprise Waver - in fact, it’s a relief, given how much he had wanted to run and hide when he had first heard those words.

Bryce takes in the reply with a moment’s thoughtfulness, then smirks to himself, shaking his head with precisely the wrong kind of pity. “Not what you expected out of that little war?”

It’s too easy to snap at statement like that, and Waver fights the urge to demand what Bryce would expect instead. Fingernails dig into palms and the dull pain brings Waver back to the present. “You still didn’t explain what you’re doing here, you know.”

“Just coming out of that bit of business makes you a person of interest.” Bryce pockets his hands, perfectly at-ease among the slow trickle of midday travelers, looking as if they are discussing something of only slight, pleasant interest. “And I believe you only took one term off at Clock Tower, correct?”

There’s very little comfort in knowing how Bryce knows that. Waver only nods, not confirming or denying his return to the institution. “I see. And after you finish?”

“Whatever I like.” It is a petulant response, certainly more in line with the Waver Velvet that roamed the halls of Clock Tower, not the one who walked away from Archer with his life. Waver refuses to dwell on the thought. “I don’t see how what I plan to do with my life or education is any of your concern.”

“You don’t do whatever you like with the Association. You do whatever you’re allowed.” There’s no surprise in how Bryce’s words brush closely against the standard Clock Tower authority. Hell, it would be spot on Bryce were more energetic or stern in his defense. As it stands, he chuffs a noise of bemusement, pocketing his hands comfortably. “Unless you’re choosing to rebel. I might like to see that.”

Waver snorts at the notion of rebellion in a way that if he was even a few months younger would make him yell at himself for buying into mage elitism. “Last I checked, two terms off was not rebellion and somehow I doubt you flew all the way out here to be a truancy officer.”

At that, Bryce is quiet. After a few moments, he gives a thoughtful noise, looking toward the exit of the train station. He gestures for Waver to follow him. “Do you consider yourself a magus, Velvet?”

The gravity of the conversation pulls Waver along, feet moving thoughtlessly as his mind snags on the too-simple query. “What kind of question is that?” he returns, frowning in a way that is almost offended, and would be entirely so were it not utterly baffled.

“Magi play the long game.” Bryce delivers his forthrightness with the same cool ease of his enigmas, watching from the corner of his eye. “Whatever you do in the next term, you should know where you mean for it to end.”

The words settle with an uncannily smooth coolness in the pit of Waver’s belly, as if he’d swallowed a pail full of river rocks, and he squares his shoulders as he intentionally keeps pace with Bryce. He can reflect on the wisdom of them later, when nerves wear off and the idea of going near Clock Tower does not make Waver wretch. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says neutrally.

It must be answer enough for Bryce, as he’s quiet while they emerge into the sunlight, quiet through the five, ten minutes of the scarred and detour-ridden streets of the city. It’s a tense, farcical simulacrum of a pleasant meeting, paired paths moving consciously through the most inhabited places, glancing only at oblique angles to the sites of greatest destruction. Bryce slows and studies them, and only after a few of these curious pauses rekindles the conversation mildly. “Shame that water never leaves ruins. These here - you can gather an idea of what happened. But the river just reeks of something nasty.”

“There were contaminants in the water before the ruins appeared,” Waver offers. He doesn’t have to run another analysis of the river water to know that the vileness of Caster’s workshop still clings to the rocks of the Mion, and he does not doubt that the creature has left traces of magecraft for years to come. In thousands of years, there will still be flecks of spells in the rocks of the dried out riverbed to bear witness to the tentacle horror and the geologists will find themselves as baffled as the contestants of the Fourth Holy Grail War were when first seeing that thing. 

“Before you were here?” It’s certainly a possibility, given Fuyuki’s history, and how tightly locked-down news of the wars tends to be. Bryce is walking again, but only around a corner, taking in another view of the former Hyatt through the gaps in the wire fencing and plastic mesh.

“During.” It’s a simple answer and an honest one that gives nothing away. Waver is not entirely certain why Bryce lingers in the rubble of a hotel that was well away from the final fire zone. Bryce is silent a little while longer, and though Waver thinks it may be only his imagination, it seems as if the focus of his gaze flattens into a quiet more profound than the simple absence of sound.

Then he looks back, and the flatness is only vague impatience. “Well?”

“Well what?” Waver replies, folding his arms over his chest.

“What was it?” Bryce asks, though the intonation matches perfectly to ‘are you simple.’

There are still no words for the horror that was Caster’s workshop, so Waver does not try to describe the place. It is easier to speak of what was summoned after that, when the workshop had been destroyed by Rider and Assassin was defeated, because that vocabulary - ah. That exists. “A perfect Lovecraft replica.”

“So... American? Bit odd? Racist?”

“No. In his house at R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.”

“The last hoorah of your Caster, I take it.” Bryce continues on, either toward the center of the destruction or toward the river. Both are in the same direction, toward that unwelcome polarity that Waver can feel his circuits push back from as he draws nearer, like a magnet resisting an identical pole. “What destroyed it?”

“Four servants and a precisely placed explosion.” It sounds like the start of the bad joke, one that Rider could probably finish with a great booming laugh that caught everyone else up in its momentum.

“You weren’t there, then.” It’s both a question and not - or maybe it’s neither. Bryce has paused again, though this time at a vending machine, scanning between cartons of cigarettes.

“I was,” Waver corrects, loitering beside the machine. “One of the servants carried a reality marble, meaning that much of the action was unseen for all. There was coordination with one of the other masters to deposit the creature near a boat full of explosives, the creature reappeared, and the boat went off around the same time an anti-fortress noble phantasm was deployed. Which it was that finished the creature off, I can’t say.”

Coin after coin clatters into the machine as Waver speaks, and Bryce smirks in satisfaction as he punches in his order, stooping to retrieve the cigarettes by the time the tale finishes. “Just as long as it worked,” he replies, tapping the pack against the heel of his palm, a dull percussion of cellophane and cardboard against skin. It takes the place of conversation, the ritual of stripping off the plastic, tapping out a cigarette and lighting it. It puts a space between the recounting of the monstrosity and more urbane things, a sort of silent choreography that makes Bryce’s next question almost natural. “What do you need the fall term for?”

Waver does not know why everything with Bryce comes back to rest at Clock Tower rather than on Kayneth, but he cannot say that one is preferable to the other. “Just to finish the basic degree,” he replies, fighting back the desire to say that he may very well not go back at all just to spite Bryce’s constant inquiries.

Bryce gives a hum that sounds more like ‘well yes, granted,’ than anything, looking off down the street thoughtfully, still redundantly tapping the pack against his palm, a slow and repetitive Morse. After a moment, he shrugs, tucking the cigarettes into his back pocket. “Good enough. Any questions from your side of the aisle?”

Waver lets the air hang dead as the percussion of the cigarette carton comes to a halt. It’s clear that whatever assumed hand Waver had in Kayneth’s demise - probably death, now that Waver reflects on it, and he cannot believe it’s the first time he’s ever considered that notion - has been dismissed. So he says nothing, offering only a mildly bored look to Bryce.

Dragging off the end of the cigarette like most people sigh, Bryce returns the look and, at length, nods. “And on that thrilling note - no doubt I’ll see you in London,” he returns, and with no more a farewell than that, he is on his way. Waver watches him go - back past the Hyatt, around the corner, and gone.

***

_14 May 1997_

_Margaret--_

_This is delayed because there was no way I was sending anything from that disgusting rat hole of a city. Fuyuki is, for all intents and purposes, a still warm corpse that’s been sitting around for far too long and even a simple letter would have trace elements of the place’s prana. Nothing you need and nothing Izzy should be inhaling._

_The only decent thing that came out of that trip was the confirmation that it was Emiya responsible for Kayneth’s death. As if the clusterfuck at the Hyatt and that autopsy report wasn’t enough, the church’s representative who oversaw the whole thing also gave evidence that Emiya was a participant in the whole thing. I did_ not _get a narrative of the war, but it frankly seemed unnecessary. I do wonder if the Church knows that their current Fuyuki representative is leaking negatively charged prana everywhere though._

_As for your lead in regards to that student of Kayneth’s. He’s alive, presumably working in the city doing fuck all. The reason the surname stuck out to you is because I was at Clock Tower the same time as his mother. I think you might have been a bit too young to remember the mess that was me being suspended two months before graduation, but that was the other family involved. I believe it was his grandmother responsible for pulling the strings though - for a first generation she networked harder than we do now. He’s turned out much the same - easy to provoke and no understanding of how the way magecraft really works - so any further time spent on him is a waste._

_The title. Look, I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: let it rest a few years. We have enough bullshit going on with the family branch up in Manchester egging the Sophia-Ri on over demanding back the land that Sola-Ui brought to the family that we do not need to bring up the El-Melloi thing. Besides, every single list that has crossed my desk in terms of candidates is shit, and I am inches away from using Kayneth’s stupid mercury blob myself to go up there and eviscerate the lot of them._

_If you must consider names though, this is the short list that didn’t make me want to punch a wall: Alexis Archibald (family branch based in Brighton), Oliver Archibald (family branch based in Cornwall), Edward Nuada-Re (family branch based in London), Maria Louisa Nuada-Re (family branch based in Dublin), Harold Nuada-Re (family branch based in Cardiff), Isabella Sophia-Ri (family branch based in Brittany, France), Maxwell Sophia-Ri Nuada-Re (family branch based in London). You can decide who you want to encourage. Everyone listed is under the age of twenty five, giving us receptive brains._

_As far as the crest goes - we need to discuss that in person._

_I’ll be back in London on the 17th. If you want to entertain your beloved cousin while he recovers from the joys of jetlag, I can make my way to you on the 19th. I’ll even bring back something to entertain the squirt._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

Waver makes a list of what he needs to buy as he walks across the Clock Tower campus, towards the registar’s office. London summers are gross affairs, especially in July, and he could not have picked a worse time to move into a flat. Aside from having to move all of his dorm things from storage out to Reading, he needs - well, everything. Bookcases, a desk, a sofa, armchairs, a patio table he can use in the kitchen, Pyrex brand glassware that he can use for alchemy, a coffee table, everything that might make it look as if he’s an actual adult living on his own rather than a child at a particularly expensive boarding school.

The ever-growing list (oh, he needs dishes to eat off of) is preferable to taking care of academic matters. With Kayneth’s death, he lost his thesis advisor and that meant forcing the registrar's office to find him a new one within the alchemy department. Waver knows, of course, that it will be a short and awkward relationship, built out of simple necessity. The matter is all but confirmed when he walks into the registrar's office. In addition to the registrar who sits perched behind her desk like a particularly skilled bird of prey, another woman is there. Mid 40s, a head of premature white hair swept into a bun and a severe face. She’s familiar, but Waver cannot place where he knows her from. 

“You’re on time. Mr Velvet, this is Professor Ioana Starswirl, head of the alchemy department,” the registrar says, once Waver has offered a quiet hello and closed the door behind him. “She’s agreed to be your advisor, so long as you are okay with it.”

Professor Starswirl stands at her introduction and turns to face Waver. He knows an evaluating look when he gets it, and for a moment he feels like a show dog being examined by a team of judges. But where he would usually let the matter go unnoticed, be judged with his paint splattered jeans and t-shirt, Waver finds himself evaluating her in return. She’s his height, maybe smaller - he’s grown in the last six months - and everything about her stature screams authority. It is different than Kayneth, who could only be called smug, but it’s not Rider either, who was nothing but raw desire and good cheer. She is cool, calm, collected and he would venture curious into the equation when he sees a smile tug at Starswirl’s lips. 

“I think we can make it work,” Waver says finally, addressing Professor Starswirl.

“Good.” The response is not the registrar's voice but Starswirl’s. “Trisha, I’ll take it from here,” she continues, and Waver notes the accent in her English immediately. Eastern European to be certain, although if he had to venture a more specific guess he would say somewhere around the Balkans. “Velvet, with me.”

Waver follows after her automatically, before he even has time to think about it. He could yell at his legs, but that would mean not listening to Starswirl as they walk out of the building.

“Your last thesis was rubbish,” she says when Waver has caught up with her outside. “But well meant.”

“Er--” Waver replies, not sure if there was a compliment in there or not. “That’s the first time someone’s said something charitable about it.”

Professor Starswirl laughs - a short, sharp bark from deep in her throat - and then continues. “Good; expect it to be the last. You shouldn’t have even attempted the evocation department for your thesis, they’re notorious for blood superiority. A third generation child like you belongs with us in the alchemy department.”

“With respect, it seemed like I had to go where my thesis would make sense, Professor.”

“Velvet, from now on please call me Ioana,” Starswirl replies. “I hate that surname.”

Waver nods respectfully. “May I ask where your first name and accent are from then?”

“Romania,” Ioana says, a smile in her voice. “But we can speak of these things later. We need to address what you will write about for your thesis, since you have to start from scratch. How are you with lab work?”

“It’s been some time,” Waver admits. Barring the wards he used in the Mackenzie house to keep it safe, the last time he practiced magecraft was when he spent the three command spells on Rider and the last time he did alchemy work was when Caster’s master had to be found. “And I admit that alchemical research had little interest for me.”

“Had,” Ioana repeats as they climb the stairs that lead to the entrance of Flammel Hall. The building’s great gothic facade looms over them and the gargoyles look all too angry from their perches. “And now?”

“Now I’m listening,” he replies calmly. “You weren’t put up to this by anyone, were you?”

Ioana lets out another of her laughs as she opens the door. “You’re smart enough to suspect foul play, very good!” The unamused look Waver gives her as he walks into the building does little to quell her delight at being accused of meddling. “But no, I was not. The alchemy department has a habit of taking in strays, as it were, since our magecraft is focused mostly on technical skill rather than circuit count. You never realized that?”

“No,” Waver admits, observing the interior of Flammel Hall carefully. Outside screamed severity and cold marble, but inside there is yellow-lit stone and a great fireplace to the left side of the main doors, surrounded by overstuffed chairs in dark green hues. It’s comfortable, save the staring eyes of portraits of great alchemists of the past hanging on the walls. “Might’ve saved me a lot of grief, now that I think about it.”

“Likely,” Ioana shrugs, walking down the left corridor. “Anyway, I think it’s best we discuss your research interests and then see if I can find you a match for ongoing experiments within the department. It’s to your advantage to do research work over what remains of the summer and spend the fall semester writing the thesis rather than rushing the two together. Are you remaining in the dorms?”

“No,” Waver says, following her. “I have a flat in Reading that I’ve been fixing up. Hence why my trousers look so awful.”

“Commuting’s the better choice, you’ll find. It lets you mentally divide up your work and private life.” Ioana stops in front of an innocent looking door and runs her right index finger over the knob, only for the frame to light up, displaying no small amount of runes before opening of its own accord. Ioana steps in and Waver follows.

Her office is sparse and modern compared to the comfort of the entrance hall. White walls and three extraordinarily large windows, three large, square armchairs to one side to create a nook, a row of neatly organized bookshelves on the far right wall and a desk that Waver is pretty sure belongs in an Ikea show room, not in an office on Clock Tower. Every item in the office has a clear purpose - there are no spare shelves for trophies or awards won, the walls are lacking in certificates of membership to this or that mage society, no personal mementos, nothing. Ioana beams at Waver’s stillness, then nudges him. “I’ve found that as a rule of thumb, the higher blood a mage or the more desperate for approval, the more labs and offices feel like trophy rooms.”

Waver nods in vague agreement, not daring to speak until they are both comfortable in the nook. Once seated - or perhaps sunk into the chair, Waver is taken aback by the depth - a more serious look crosses Ioana’s face. “To the point then. Research. You took off for a reason. Tell me what you observed and what that makes you want to do to finish your course of study at Clock Tower.”

“Mm.” It’s not an easy question, but Waver appreciates its lack of guile. “I have to admit, I became more reliant on technology when I took time off. Not because of lack of opportunity to use magecraft, it just seemed...” He gestures at the air, searching for the right word, then stops when Ioana nods in understanding. “And I think that the two can co-exist, or we can at least take cues from technology in working with thaumaturgy.”

“It’s not a bad thought,” Ioana concedes. “Explain to me how combining the two gets one closer towards the goal of all mages.”

The answer comes easier than Waver expects. “The root has eclipsed us for millennia, right? There’s a chance that modern technology has insight we don’t. Besides, even if combining the two comes to nothing, we’ll at least know to rule out the idea entirely. It’s the scientific method.”

“How would you combine the two?”

“I’m--not sure. Maybe simple stuff first, trying to applying proven scientific ideas to magecraft concepts—“

“--Well,” Ioana says. “How familiar are you with artificial intelligence?”

Waver leans forward slightly. “You mean robotics?”

“Mm.” A smile dances on Ioana’s lips, and it takes full form for all of a moment before she explains further. “Applying artificial intelligence to elemental familiars. We’ve just gotten a five year grant and the preliminary work would make a fine thesis.”

“That’s a lot to risk on me though, if you’re planning to publish said thesis as a legitimate part of a larger work.” Still, Waver considers the idea. It isn’t working with circuits and performing great feats of magecraft but -- well, it’s finishing his degree with something mildly interesting.

“Well if you like the work I’d be happy to see if we can keep you on as a researcher or pay for you to pursue a graduate degree here at Clock Tower.”

Waver considers the offer, and while the idea of more time at Clock Tower than absolutely necessary makes him shudder, the assumption that he would be capable of doing the workload of a graduate student is flattering. “I can promise an undergraduate thesis, and we can go from there. Let me guess - I get to do the literature review?”

“Essentially,” Ioana says. “Why don’t you come in tomorrow and I can show you the research we’ve been doing in the labs. We’re using Room 106 in the Gladstone Building. The team, as it is now, consists of myself and Professor Xanteroz, five of our graduate mages and now six undermages.”

“Okay.” It feels like it’s time for him to stand, and so Waver does. “When should I be there?”

“One o’clock.”

Waver promises to be there on time and sees himself out, leaving Professor Starswirl in her great comfy armchair. He doubts he’ll stay around for a graduate degree, then pushes the thought aside so he can find his list of needed furniture again. For a moment, he considers Ioana’s words about modern mages and furnishings, then shrugs it off. He is fairly sure the logic does not apply to blue rooms that are intended to be a place to live rather than work - or even think about work - in.

***

_18 July 1997_

_Margaret--_

_Thank you for finding a lawyer on such short notice. This land matter being dragged through the common law courts is bad enough, that the fucking branch in Manchester decided to loan the Sophia-Ri our usual representative is beyond words (certainly beyond printable ones). I can’t confirm that the branch has also kicked up some dirt on the matter of local corruption charges in common politics, but right now I wouldn’t be shocked. The fuckers are playing with us._

_As far as your shortened shortlist. Maybe on Oliver (needs come more cunning, might gain it in graduate studies at Clock Tower), yes on Alexis (good mind and calm), absolutely not on Maxwell (a combination of those surnames are to be avoided from now on), yes on Isabella (although she is French), maybe on Maria Louisa (potential needs to be proven and she’s 16). Act as you see fit with pulling them along. I have no preference at the moment - your work will make it so._

_Good to hear the house worked out for you and I’m not shocked by Izzy making a muddy mess of the flower beds. Can’t expect a six year old to appreciate centuries of careful gardening. Let me know if you find anything else important in cleaning out Kayneth’s old crap - it may resolve our legal matters._

_I’m on business in South America soon, so correspondance will be sporadic. Some idiot decided to use multiple national heritage sites in Brazil for evocation, blowing each to bits. The South American mages at least had the good sense to get all of them insured, hence my presence._

_Plane leaves from Heathrow on Monday. See you in a month._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

It’s pleasantly surprising how much Waver enjoys the chaotic nature of lab work and how the camaraderie of the research team makes him look forward to his daily commute. Being the one to write the literature review is no problem at all, and the truth is that most of the reading occurs not in the labratory, but on the train to and from London. The lab has too many other demands, like putting out fires and lending a hand with a few beakers full of a corrosive something or other, and while Waver has somehow managed to get scars from water, he doesn’t mind. It’s all in the name of teamwork, although he could use fewer nights at the pub with the graduate mages. Aisling in particular has a bad habit of edging everyone past their tolerance, then coming into the lab the next day without so much as an inkling of a hangover. The Irish jokes get thrown at her by everyone else, only for her bright laugh to cause everyone to groan in pain and swear about light and sound, ensuring that the day’s work doesn’t get started until well past noon. Professors Starswirl and Xanteroz say nothing about the lab’s strange working hours, and the research gets done.

Summer fades into fall, although its temperatures linger just enough to make the classrooms of Clock Tower ever so slightly uncomfortable. Waver sits and fidgets through his three remaining classes, finding it all but impossible to sit and listen to the professors. There is nothing exciting about hearing them drone on about the life work of some mage, only to give no demonstrations of their spells and how others might be able to learn them. Once or twice, Waver dares to raise his hand and ask after precisely that, only to be met with a dull look and the same stock response of, “What does it matter if you are not on that mage’s level of performance?”

Worse still are the stares from fellow students. Waver does not know the rumours that have become attached to his name in his absence, but the gawking makes his skin crawl. He knows, of course, people will think what they like and there’s no point in correcting them nor is it worth the waste of energy, but he finds no joy in walking across campus with low mutters in his wake.

He learns one of the rumours in October, while desperately searching for an 18th century treatise on alchemy in the library. For all that the place should be silent, the voices of two younger students ring clearly on the other side of the stacks, and Waver stills when he hears his name mentioned.

“I heard he offed his advisor,” the one voice says. “The entire Archibald family has been a mess since December 96.”

“That long?” the other voice replies, genuinely surprised. “They’re usually quick to sort out succession issues.”

“Well, that’s the problem. Apparently their family head was engaged - not married - so his fiancée’s family is making the situation difficult. Not that they have much of a claim, since she died too.”

“Don’t tell me that Velvet kid was involved with that too.”

“Nah, I mean, killing a professor is pretty normal, but going after the family’s a bit much. Then again, the Sophia-Ris never actually said how their daughter died, so who knows.”

Waver cringes, trying to focus on anything but the conversation from the next row over.

“So then what are they doing to take care of everything?”

“No idea. Last I heard the Archibalds were trying to fend off some of their own family members. Seems the lower branches would like to take over their late head’s position as Lord El-Melloi as well as head of the family.”

“Mm, well. What’re you gonna do?”

Waver tunes the discussion out after that point, his hand having automatically found the book during his eavesdropping. Logically, Waver knows, the conversation should not bother him. The problems of his former professor’s family are not his - they never have been, nor should they be now. He had no hand in Kayneth’s death and Bryce had made it clear that there would be no quarrel between Waver and the rest of the Archibald family. Staring down at the library copy of _Alchemical Theories on Personality Transmutation_ centers him, and Waver’s legs do the rest, carrying him to the check-out desk and then back to the wonderful noise and bustle of the Gladstone laboratories.

Professor Starswirl is there when he returns, running over data with one of the other grad students. Starswirl gives a friendly wave to him, then gestures that she’ll join him in his book fortress shortly. Waver nods in acknowledgement, then settles down in his research station again. The ten piles of books that take up his lab bench have been sorted again, and he adds the new text to the seventh pile. He watches the stack shake for a tense moment, then grins when it proves steady. Waver then takes a different book from the fifth pile, busying himself with modern AI theory. It’s nearly impossible for any mage without familiarity and trust in technology to read, and even Waver struggles with some of the finer points. He swears that Ioana must be aware of his poor concentration too, because when she walks over she gives him the ever familiar look that worries not after his thesis progression but if he’s eaten today.

“Did you find the book?” Starswirl asks instead, once she’s gotten Waver’s attention.

“Yeah,” Waver motioning at the appropriate pile. “Took a while to find, but I got it. I’ll start reading once I finish this one.”

“Good.” Ioana’s voice is its usual stern tone when discussing matters academic. “I got through the draft for the first chapter you handed me on Monday.”

“And?”

“Your academic writing has suffered during your time off, but that’s nothing we can’t address,” Ioana says, crisp and precise. “I have the corrected draft in my office.”

Waver knows a command when he hears one, so he gets up and follows his advisor back to Flammel Hall. He knows the route by heart now, every step, every crack in the pavement, every grumble that Ioana makes against the wind tunnel that the buildings create just before Clover Hall, and Waver cannot help but chuckle lowly at knowing each and every reaction before it happens. It’s a closeness that he has not had with any other professor in his whole career in Clock Tower, and some part of him is shocked that it exists.

Once inside of Professor Starswirl’s office, Waver sinks into what has become his usual armchair while Ioana grabs a stack of neatly typed pages from her desk, covered in purple corrections. He automatically holds a hand out for the revised chapter as Ioana walks past him to settle into her own chair, then skims.

“As I said,” Ioana offers, taking the moment to fiddle with a biscuit tin that Waver has seen lurking on her desk before. “The problem is style. You’re too wordy, too interested in waxing poetic. Regurgitate the information and then add your thoughts at the end in a precise manner.”

Waver nods vaguely, noting that Ioana’s corrections are not only fixated on deleting extra words, but on changing the ones that are being kept. “You wanted this on Monday?”

“Yes,” Ioana says, placing the biscuit tin down on the coffee table between them. “I’d like for you to get to the stylistic point I want quickly, so that further corrections are content based and content based alone.” She nudges Waver’s foot with hers under the table. “Eat. You’re too skinny.”

“I get caught up in the work,” Waver admits with a small grin, placing the draft down on his lap and reaching over for a biscuit. He settles for a lady finger dipped in chocolate.

Ioana gives a snort of approval, then takes a biscuit for herself. “A mage doesn’t survive by research alone, Velvet.”

“Yeah, well--” Waver finds himself deflating at the thought, overheard conversation in the library coming rushing back to him in a painful flash. “The other parts are pretty unsavoury.”

There’s a silence from Ioana that Waver doesn’t like, and he munches his biscuit to fill in the gap. “It goes along with the territory,” she says finally, a frown crossing her face. “Even basic things, like research grants, are less about the work and more about who’s doling them out.”

“I know that, but it’s still ridiculous,” Waver snaps, harder than he should. “Quality of work should stand on its own - not be tied up with who is friends with whom. If all mages share the same goal, then it’s in everyone’s interest to...” He trails off, flopping miserably into the armchair’s depths. It’s the old argument again, the one in his original thesis that sent him to Japan, and there’s no point in repeating it.

“Ideally, yes,” Ioana agrees, ignoring the harshness in her student’s tone. “But this is reality, and the reality is that the goal of the root became a race to see who gets there first centuries ago. I’d venture that there are plenty of mages that don’t even care about that goal anyway.”

Waver wonders if he’s included in that statement but knows better than to ask. He instead reacts to the siren song of the biscuit tin and takes another - gingerbread this time - and considers it before replying. “It’s just frustrating for me to go back to lectures after doing lab work this summer, you know?”

“Mm.” Ioana reclines in her chair, crossing one leg over the other and all but disappearing into the cushions. “But one does not exist without the other.”

“I know, I know. All are parts of the whole.” It’s the first and foremost principle of alchemy, beyond even the idea of equivalent exchange, and the principle is as much a philosophy as it is a rule.

Ioana nods in approval. “Good. I’ll expect the draft on Monday.”

***

_30 October 1997_

_Margaret--_

_At the moment, legal case is being stalled in the courts due to lack of evidence. I don’t know if this is you destroying evidence (if so, thank you) or simply the opposition overestimating what was actually written down. Either way, it looks like the land case is going to get thrown out. As I understand it, Manchester is still snooping for other stuff. For fuck’s sake do they think that there was a dowry involved?! It isn’t the fucking Renaissance._

_The problem here is that they’ve allied with the entire branch in Ireland and everyone in Wales. So that means that Maria Louisa’s right out for the El-Melloi title. Work harder on Oliver, everyone’s telling me he’s still a right prat who’s slacking on his studies and getting the undergraduates to do his research work. In any other case, I’d approve of such behaviour, but with rumours that are flying around on the campus, we can’t afford that kind of bullshit. Your progress with Alexis and Isabella though is commendable - hell, even surprising. I wouldn’t have thought that Isabella was capable of taking a third option when faced with physical combat, but that’s the kind of thinking that is worthy of a title._

_Keep the present lawyer we have until we can buy back our usual guy. Also, start digging on anything and everything you can on the Ireland branch. I think they had something to do with the artefact last minute right? I don’t remember the specifics though - if you could find that out actually, I would appreciate it. There had to be illegal trade for it and looting is a hot-button topic. Find out what you can and I’ll see what can be put in motion. Should be fun - I’ve never worked with art history before._

_Until then.  
-Bryce_

***

Nothing about Waver’s thesis defense is remarkable. The committee - Ida Dusek of the Prague Association and Professor Emeritus of the Evocation department Theodore Nuada-Re Sophia-Ri - asks hard questions, but Waver answers them all with ease, rattling off facts and figures with precise citations on command. The whole affair lasts for two hours and twenty five minutes, and he has to admit that he is surprised by how simple he found the process. When he hears the words, “You thesis passes with no corrections, Mr. Velvet,” Waver doesn’t smile, he simply nods as if that was to be expected and then heads out of the room as if nothing happened at all. Only once he is in Professor Starswirl’s office does Waver dare grin in triumph, safe within the walls of the alchemy department and nestled in an armchair that could easily eat a man alive with his feet propped up on the coffee table.

“I,” Waver says, struggling to sit upright, “am not going to miss these stupid chairs.”

“Shush, they’re comfortable and I like them,” Ioana replies with a grin. “And show some pride, hm? You’re done and you did well. We can use everything you wrote in the greater study.”

“Really?”

Ioana nods, sinking lower into the chair. “Also, did you consider the discussion we had over your last round of edits?”

“About graduate studies? Yes.” Waver plants his feet on the ground and pulls himself upward, all but clinging to the chair’s arms to escape its cushiony depths. “I do like research, but I don’t know if I can manage more time here. Plus, I know I’ve missed the application deadline and graduate studies here are almost impossible to get into. Never mind cost--”

“Cost can be easily controlled. You’re a good researcher, Waver. We need more of those, and if you’re willing to teach then it shouldn’t be a problem. I can probably pull enough strings so that you can start in winter term.”

“--Teach?” Waver repeats, not surprised, but definitely in need of confirmation.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No, not at all,” he says, smiling slightly. “I actually tutored for a while back in Japan and enjoyed it. I’m sure a lecture post will be different but--”

“--Well yes, but you’ll be working from an already established course. Probably my introductory one,” Ioana finishes with a wave of her hand. “We’ll talk about it when I confirm that you’re going to continue to be one of the lab minions.”

***

_18 December 1997_

_Margaret--_

_I just wanted to let you know that the art laws you found were perfect and our lawyer found someone who specializes in these legal cases. As it stands now, she’s looking into the sale of the spear heads and where they might have been floating around. It may take some time to investigate, but it is definitely going through. The Irish branch of things is making irritated noises and trying to cover their tracks. Manchester is doing their best to help, since the Sophia-Ri court case got tossed. Their angle with Sola-Ui’s will also fell flat, so their avenues of action are running out and fast._

_Oliver should be encouraged towards attending the faculty parties at Clock Tower and you were right to do so. He may end up having a talent for networking (something I’ve noticed Alexis is lacking in - can we fix that?). As it stands, I remain unimpressed by him, but I’d like to see how much further you can push Isabella. I realize the risk of inviting - horror of all horrors - a Frenchwoman into the title can be, but between the combat thing and the fact she just graduated the French branch of Clock Tower a year early is pretty excellent. If she’s going to do graduate studies, make sure it’s in something useful._

_About the crest. Under any other circumstances, I’d be uncomfortable with giving Ismene the family crest, but it is between her and that five year old in the Manchester branch. If they pull off this ridiculous attempt at a coup, well, then we’re answered. We all know my kids are ill suited for the crest and have other important roles to take up in this family, and besides, we all know that crests are more painful to plant the older one gets._

_I’ll see you at Christmas and we can discuss this face to face._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

It’s embarrassing how awkwardly Waver sits in the plane seat. At now nearly six feet tall, he is all arms and legs as he tries to get comfortable. Ioana sits beside him, not bothering to hide her amusement as she ducks his flailing limbs. In front of them sit two of the other graduate students who groan miserably whenever an arm or leg hits their seat.

“That’s what you deserve for drinking that much after the conference,” Ioana chides, making sure her voice is loud. 

“Nnnnn,” Aishling’s voice responds, and she slumps further down into the seat. “It was good beer! Prague is the best for beer! A girl has weaknesses--”

“And admittedly did a good presentation,” Waver adds.

“Still,” Ioana says cheerfully. 

Aishling’s pain is palpable in her whine. “Ioana!”

“Fine, fine, I’ll leave you be,” she chuckles, feeling safe enough to lean back in her seat. “Comfy yet, Waver?”

“I think,” he says, finally leaning back in his own seat. It’s not ideal, but Waver knows he’ll be asleep soon after take off. “Thanks for having me come along even though I had nothing to present.”

“Mm,” Ioana hums in response, shuffling through her own bag and pulling out a stack of papers. “The Prague Association’s spring conference is always a good place for new graduate students. Did you get any ideas on what you’d like to research?”

“Well, it looks like artificial intelligence has a lot of ways it could go,” Waver replies, careful to keep his voice low, least Aisling turn around and kill him with her hangover stare. “But I’d like to do practical work - maybe with something that already exists and the intelligence can be fed in.”

“Was there anything in your undergraduate thesis that you could use to see what’s been done already?”

“Yeah,” Waver says. “Thank you for not rushing me into picking my subject right away. I liked using the last term to get used to teaching and balancing graduate courses.”

“Of course. I was surprised that your students got such excellent marks, especially in their lab work.”

Waver glows at the compliment. “I noticed most of the researchers at the conference who were also professors only had the master magus degree. Is that common?”

“It depends,” Ioana offers with a shrug. “The director cursus degree requires an awful lot of money and so only the oldest families can achieve it. Universities won’t hesitate to hire master’s holding magi so long as they have a good record of research and publication.” She pauses, then offers Waver a face that could be called amused if it didn’t look so concerned. “You’re considering a teaching career then, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Waver admits. There’s no point in hiding it, and if he looks at Ioana in just the right light, he can swear she actually has something that might be approval in her eyes. “I mean, if you think I’d be able to pull it off.”

“I think,” Ioana says, pausing to pull her words together, “You could continue research and have a middling level of success. People in certain circles would certainly listen to you, professor or not.” There’s a but that lingers on the tip of her tongue and Waver tilts his head when it doesn’t follow. Ioana sighs and stares at the seat ahead of her. “Anything beyond that, you’d need more to your name than peer reviewed articles and a teaching post.”

Waver tries not to deflate at the implication, but fails. Ioana gives Waver what he knows is a look of pity and it hurts to have a professor even offer such sentiments. “You’d either have to marry up or luck into something that would give you authority.”

“I’m twenty-one,” Waver mutters, feeling misery creep into his voice. “Way too young for that.”

The laugh that follows is without Ioana’s usual good cheer - it’s bitter, and when he hears it, Waver knows he has misspoken. “Velvet, believe me,” she says. “Twenty-one is plenty old for marriages. Higher blooded mages have a nasty way of thinking that if you marry young you’ll produce offspring with more circuits than when you’re older.”

“I...” He lets out a long sigh. “Sorry.”

“Mm, well,” Ioana’s sigh matches his in length, and she finally looks back down at the stack of papers in her lap. “I should get to grading these then, since I ignored them all weekend.”

Waver lets Ioana be, contemplating her words. Marriage is not an option - and it isn’t now, nor will it be for a while. Authority, though, ah, there are options there.

Quietly, as the plane begins to barrel down the runway, he wonders where he put those index cards from Fuyuki.

***

_20 May 1998_

_Margaret--_

_I don’t have time to call and discuss this (work’s a clusterfuck, why the hell do experiments that involve gross property damage always happen around this time? Is it the change in weather?). Hell, I’m sending this on a smoke break!_

_The meeting is a waste of time. That kid was a pain in the ass in Fuyuki last year and I don’t care what ridiculous potential the head of the Evocation department thinks he sees in him. Theodore’s an idiot who thought that Sola-Ui and Kayneth were a good match and refused to listen to me about it because he favoured Kayneth academically. Fuck his opinion._

_Bloodline aside, we do not need someone from outside the family coming in to take any sort of political control - we’re still resolving our own shit._

_If we must discuss this further, call me tonight around nine. As far as I’m concerned, if you want to look into this so badly, you can conduct the damn interview yourself._

_I need to run.  
-Bryce_

***

Sometimes, Waver hates the London Underground. True, there is no better way to travel in London, but the gawking stares of tourists at a particularly tall young man dressed in a green dress shirt, black waistcoat, slacks and a tie that carries just a touch of typical mage peacock fashion sensibility is one of his least favourite things. He would usually let the matter roll off his back, but he had been forced to buy something formal for a cup of tea at a stupidly posh hotel all because he wanted a simple blob of mercury. It was ridiculous, the clothes had cut into his budget for food and home improvements, and he wasn’t sure who he would be meeting with.

There’s no relief in the fact that Waver looks perfectly in place in Claridge’s tea room. The place isn’t as old as the Archibalds, but the glitzy interior done in faded yellow, with great columns looking over the room because neoclassicism never dies is an unsubtle reminder of where Waver stands in the world of magi. What is worse is who sits at the Archibald table, dressed in a dark navy suit with pewter buttons that glint dully, a visual middle-ground between the drama of magus attire and business wear that blends smoothly into the room and its inhabitants. When Waver is halfway across the room, he lifts his eyes from the little pad he is jotting in, and stands to offer his hand. It is a public courtesy, automatic, and though there is no gladness in it there is a hint of pleasure all the same.

“You’re still growing,” he observes, in a tone that hints at condescension without ever running smack into it.

“I am,” Waver replies evenly, taking his seat. His eyes barely glance over the tea menu before deciding on that the ceylon black looks the best. “Your cousin was surprised I called.”

“And after you were so eager the last we talked!” Bryce follows suit, flipping shut the pad and tucking it away in his jacket, tutting in faux-dismay. “Who could possibly be surprised.”

“Things change,” Waver observes dryly, fighting to control his hands and their desire for something to fidget with.

“Oh, good. ” Folding his hands on the table, Bryce matches dry for dry, though with the added weight of years and worry-lines behind his, and that overtone of patently false conversationalism. “To be frank, I wasn’t looking forward to another bout of twenty questions.”

“As if I enjoy playing the game either,” Waver begins, only to stop himself when one of the waiters comes over to take their orders. Two pots of tea - the ceylon black for Waver and earl grey for Bryce - and scones. When the wait staff departs, Waver looks back over at Bryce, hiding his irritation at being spoken over in ordering. At least, Waver figures, it’s an assurance that he won’t have to pay the bill.

“Well then,” Bryce answers, smiling with his mouth and his mouth alone. “What game do you want to play instead?”

“None. Games are tedious,” Waver replies. “And in magi games, no one wins. I want to know what became of Kayneth’s mystic code.”

“It’s waiting for the next Lord El-Melloi. Whenever that title can be dusted back off.”

“And in the meantime the mercury’s, what, sitting idle?”

“If you’d like to think of it that way. Mystic Codes will do that for decades, sometimes.” Bryce cocks an eyebrow, expression shifting into a curious smirk. “But I’m sure there’s a professor who’s written half a dozen articles on the things.”

“It strikes me as a waste of resources to let it stay in storage,” Waver says, glossing over Bryce’s previous statement. “Not when there’s ongoing research that could actually make use of something like that.”

Bryce tuts, shaking his head. “I think you’ve mistaken the Archibald line for altruists. Though I can’t imagine how, really. You didn’t have any especially kind words for your old teacher.”

“Nor he for me, so I consider my debt with the dead even,” Waver counters, fingers drumming on the table between them. “I do, however, guess that you’re displeased with the amount of rumours flying around Clock Tower concerning internal family troubles. Even first and second generation mage children are abuzz on the matter, which says all sorts of things about the situation, regardless of what’s actually true.”

The tea comes, but Bryce does not fall silent and wait for the server to leave, eyes lidded and fixed across the table. “I’m afraid I don’t see your point, Velvet,” he replies, and the name comes out crisply, a thing of perfectly-known precision.

Waver does not pay any attention to how many cubes of sugar he drops into his tea cup, only that it’s likely enough to power a few hummingbirds. “My point is that everyone knows the Archibald family is tearing itself apart, bringing legal action in commoner courts over some incredibly petty stuff, there’s free talk of there being a coup and there’s no policing any of this on your part.” He finally stirs the tea in his cup, certain that there will be a thick sugary sludge at the bottom. “I find it hard to believe that you’re letting the rumour mill get this out of control.”

“And the logical resource is... To surrender our mystic code to a graduate student,” Bryce completes flatly, reaching for the cream and pouring out a cursory dash. “Is this one of those Japanese riddles?”

“How many members of the lower branch of the Archibald family are still students at Clock Tower?” Waver raises the dainty china to his lips and takes a long sip. For any other man, it would be unbearably sweet, but Waver pauses to wonder if he didn’t add enough.

“Irrelevant. There’s no reason to give you the thing. Especially not when I have people who are subtler and far more competent at espionage than you would ever hope to be,” Bryce informs him bluntly, and there’s an air of disappointment in his sigh as he continues. "Really, knowing Eva, I'd thought you'd be sharper than this."

Waver does not quite wash his sinuses out with the tea, but it's a near thing, and leaves him choking against the few milliliters that decide to go on holiday down his trachea instead. The look on Bryce's face is the look of someone who's already seen a punchline coming and isn't entirely impressed by its implementation, but he does his best to ignore it, voice rasping once he recovers it enough. "You knew my grandmother?"

"Don't sound so surprised, Velvet," he chides airily, eyebrows lifted in a way that lets too much light into the paleness of his eyes. "Plenty of men knew your grandmother."

For a brief, mad moment, Waver can imagine himself clearing the low table in a single savage leap, sending saucers and finger sandwiches to their wailing and untimely deaths. It's satisfying in a way that is a little distressing, when he remembers again to breathe, and that he is still Waver Velvet, one of many alchemy department grunt workers and third generation magus.

Bryce, in the meantime, looks as if the punchline has been revised, and he likes it much better now.

“So name me as a candidate for the title,” Waver says finally.

For the first time in the conversation, Bryce’s cup clatters gracelessly back to its saucer, tea sloshing and spinning wildly, sending a thin stream of opaque tan down the china. It’s a gesture that might be angry, but even a cursory glimpse at Bryce shows that he is, in fact, doing his best not to laugh. The braying is fighting behind his voice, desperate to escape as he gives a glee-rough, “Pardon?”

“Your ears work just fine,” Waver chides with as much authority as he dares attempt, pausing only to stir in another sugar cube into now lukewarm tea. “It’s the lower branches of the family that are the problem, right? Argue that I’m the more natural candidate based on the hierarchy of academics - specifically apprenticeship.”

“If the title was an academic post, the matter would have been settled ages ago.” Grinning toothily, Bryce shakes his head, with visible difficulty narrowing his mouth enough to have another drink of tea. “It takes a little more demonstrable power than a good mentor or riding the prana coattails of one of the Einzberns’ old systems.”

“You’re right, it’s mostly the tedious administration of leylines in a given domain combined with the need to ensure local mages aren’t prancing about practicing the craft in the middle of town to all and sundry,” Waver says, venturing cynicism into the conversation. He’s certain that wherever Bryce is leading their conversation, the cynicism is appropriate.

Bryce nods, perhaps the most agreeable thing he has done the entire time he has sat at the table, an allowance that that aspect of Waver’s understanding, at least, is correct enough. “Mostly, from what I see. And why would any local magus listen to you?”

Waver offers a shrug. “Did they listen to my predecessor?”

“A faculty member at Clock Tower with proven talent and the circuits to match?” He looks almost pleased, but not deeply - satisfaction might be a better word for it. “The ones you can still find did.”

“One of those things I can fix, if that’s what it takes.” Waver drains the rest of his cup’s contents, until the half inch of sugary sludge reaches his lips. “And you’ll note I only said name me as a candidate - nothing further. Do that and you can determine without question who is and isn’t loyal - not only within your family, but amongst allies as well.”

Bryce is quiet a moment, and he looks at Waver as if he is an assemblage of things to be counted, a collection of parts with seams that are only very well hidden. Then he leans back in his chair, lifting his eyebrows mildly. “Finish your pitch once someone gives you the chance to start it, Velvet.”

Waver refills his tea cup, keeping quiet while he orders everything in his head. There is something painful about spilling all of his ambitions out to another Archibald. “Fine. In addition to gaining someone willing to do the grunt work of lordship and act as a divisive figure to determine who is and isn’t an enemy within your own network, the Archibald family needs something to renew and strengthen its ties with the Sophia-Ri and Nuada-Re, and there’s nothing that will do that as effectively as maintaining the patency of the lordship that all three families hold a stake in. In addition to that, you’re forgetting the fact that everyone knows that the Archibald family is falling apart. Naming anyone for the position will help change that, and while picking someone outside the family could be read as further problems, it could also be taken as a new turn for the family by patronizing younger mages with potential. As you said, you don’t do altruism, but after what - almost two years? - of splintering, it might not hurt. At the very least, you won’t lose any ground while I progress in my career.” He makes sure to meet Bryce’s eyes, though it feels too much like the visual equivalent of touching a lizard or tasting the fog from dry ice. “Which I will, with it known that an old and venerable family with power has put its weight behind me. In addition, because I’m a non-family member, the question of crest succession becomes irrelevant. That goes on to be inherited by someone who’s a part of the bloodline, leaving you a family member to work within the magecraft community in addition to an allied lord. For all of that to happen, I need a place to start, and to start, I need the volumen hydragyrum.”

For a solid two minutes, Bryce does not respond. It’s entirely evident that he hears and understands - he holds Waver’s gaze until he finishes, fixing himself a new cup of tea after he finishes the last one, taking a scone, doctoring it with clotted cream and preserves, and eating half. But after that time, he nods to himself, and looks back at Waver with a mild, inquisitive look.

“Do you know why I mentioned Eva, Velvet?” he asks, and Waver cannot escape how audible that comma is, the break between addressing his grandmother by her given name and himself by the inherited one. He shakes his head in denial, the words drained out of him momentarily, at a low ebb until he hears some answer, any answer to soothe the uncertainty gnawing between his heart and spine.

“Because she knew how to get what she wanted.” Something about the statement is almost nostalgic, and a strange bitterness twists in Waver’s gut, though he cannot even pinpoint why at that moment. “She knew how to get it without even letting on that she was asking. If the world was fair that would’ve been a talent that you’d gotten with your crest.”

Waver remains silent.m In response, Bryce makes a chuffed noise that might be approval as easily as it might be aggrieved derision. “Both times we’ve met, listening to you has been my job, not my pastime,” he says, pleasantly offensive as you please. “Most ears you need to bend to make this plan work further down the line won’t be charmed by the huffy Socrates approach.”

Bryce demolishes the other half of his scone in three neat bites, then wipes his fingers off on the napkin, eyes carelessly downcast. “But that’s something we can keep an eye on while it’s seen what you do with the volumen hydragyrum.”

Waver nearly says something about years of academic rhetoric playing a part, but stops himself when he realizes that Bryce has agreed to what he wants. The childish part of Waver wants to leap up and do a victory lap around the tea room, and he nearly indulges it until he realizes that mage gift horses should always be looked in the mouth. “In the meantime, am I going to have to do anything else for this family?”

“You’ll be notified when those come up.” Bryce smiles like a saint would, in a world where saints were born only among obligate predators. “Unless that’s a problem?”

“No.”

“Good to hear.” Bryce untucks his notepad from his pocket and scribbles something in it with an audible scratching, tucking it away again with a slight flourish. “You’ll have the code within a week or two, then.”

“That’s fine.” Waver nearly asks the ridiculous question of how one delivers weaponized mercury, but immediately decides that asking could undo this small miracle he’s managed. “Evenings and weekends work better for me.”

“I’m sure we can manage something like that.” Bryce’s hand does not emerge from his jacket without a slip of notes, which he thumbs through quickly to produce, Waver thinks, a little more than the cost of the tea. He must look at the gesture questioningly, because Bryce catches his gaze and chortles, one corner of his mouth twisting up toward his eye in a parody of a crooked grin. “Would you rather I stay here for another half hour?”

His expression must betray him again, prompting Bryce’s short laugh and nod. “Me neither,” he answers, and Waver has the strange sensation as he watches him leave, that the dismissal is almost a kindness.

***

_22 May 1998-_

_Margaret--_

_Fine, you were right. The meeting was not a complete waste of an hour of my life, but it was not enjoyable. Best news of all, the out of control rumour mill is indeed obscuring what’s going on. Letting it out that Manchester was pursuing legal action has led to the assumption that we’re mired in the shit and that we’re completely out of control of the situation. Sadly, this meant the Velvet kid wants in on the title as a candidate, but he brought something up that we’ve hitherto overlooked - allies and where they stand with us._

_We’ve assumed that everyone has been on the side of London the entire time. This may explain why Manchester was able to get a hold of Sola-Ui’s will and compare it to Kayneth’s as well as try to fuck us back about the purchase of Kayneth’s original summoning artefact. (We set a precedent with the spear head, unfortunately.) As it stands, we need to determine this and fast, before it trips us up further._

_So. The kid’s getting the mystic code and a faux mention for the title. Saves me the temptation of using the blob and you can bounce Oliver and Isabella off him. (Alexis just had a serious accident and I don’t think the boy’s left eye is coming back. He doesn’t need more stress.) Oliver’s already there at Clock Tower and I’d like him leveled up to Isabella’s game. I’m sure that if we have to revoke the code at any point, we can make something up. He’s definitely not someone I want for the title permanently - he’s not family and he could potentially bring a whole host of useless bullshit to our table that we don’t need._

_Also - yes, I can make it to Ismene’s birthday party on the tenth. I am not, however, getting her that Furby thing. It looks demonic._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

There is a bright red kiddie pool sitting in a corner of the laboratory. Waver had thought that Aisling was kidding about purchasing one when he brought the volumen hydragyrum into the lab, but no. It is there, with a pile of rubber ducks and toy boats beside it.

“Oh my God,” he mutters to himself, covering his eyes with his hand “Aisling--!” 

Within moments, Aisling is beside him, grinning brightly. “We needed a containment unit! C’mon, where’s the mercury, let’s make sure it fits!”

“Oh for fuck’s...” Waver gives up, setting his shoulder bag down. The Archibalds had kindly forgotten to include any sort of instruction manual for the mercury, and Kayneth’s academic articles gave away no secrets, forcing Waver to carry the volumen hydragyrum around in tupperware. He’s certain that there is something comical about him having to pour weaponized mercury from a bright blue tub into a child’s plastic pool, but he definitely isn’t laughing.

“It fits,” Waver says, once the mercury has been poured out into its new container. Almost immediately, Aisling crouches beside the pool and picks up a few of the bath toys, dotting the surface with boats and rubber ducks.

“Really?”

Aisling laughs and straightens up. “Why not? Unless you want to get to work.”

“I did, yes. We planned out the first experiment yesterday, didn’t we?”

“Fine, fine.” Aisling plucks the toys out of the pool and puts them aside, allowing Waver to drag the pool full of mercury towards the middle of the room. 

“Marker!” Waver yells, only for one to bonk him in the head courtesy of Aisling. 

It takes a half an hour to draw the transmutation circle and at the end, Waver can swear that his back is going to murder him for the crouching. Still, the circle is drawn, dotted with simple codes for rational logic. It’s the first step in artificial alchemical based intelligence, and one that the entire lab has proven to work across various elemental based familiars.

“Okay,” he calls over his shoulder towards Aisling. “Are we ready to start?”

“Yeah,” Aisling yells back. “Fill in the last line!”

“Got it!” Waver walks towards the edge of the circle that remains incomplete, then fixes the gap, pushing his prana into the tip of the pen. From the completed line, the prana begins to trace through the rest of the circle, until the room lights up with a purple glow, sparks flying every which way they please before swirling around and centering on the plastic pool in the middle, striking the volumen hydragyrum from every direction possible. No one moves until the light fades, and when it does, Waver and Aisling rush over with a marble and three plastic cups in hand.

“Get out,” Waver commands to the mercury once they’re standing over it. The volumen hydragyrum obeys, slithering onto the ground like a liquid snake before reforming as a perfect sphere. Waver and Aisling take a moment to marvel at the liquid’s transformation before Waver commands the mercury to pay attention to the marble that Aisling is going to hide under a cup. Playing shell games with elementals is always the first means of checking to make sure the experiment worked, and Aisling grins as she moves the cups deftly on the floor, looking at the volumen hydragyrum the entire time. When she finishes the shuffling, she lets Waver command the mercury to find the marble, and to their shared delight, it picks the right one. They repeat the text 15 more times, with thirteen positive results.

“So,” Aisling beams, “I think we’ve got something.”

“Yep,” Waver says, smiling so hard it hurts his cheeks. “Let’s run a few more logic tests to be sure, then we can figure out what’s next.”

***

_1 August 1998_

_Margaret--_

_Glad to hear that the furby finally broke due to mage vs technology issues. I’m surprised it took that long, actually._

_The looting case is going through the Irish courts now, and I’m certain we’ll get a conviction on that side of the family. Manchester has been pouring money into the cause to the point of distraction - we’ve managed to dodge their legal comeback at us regarding the Macedonian fabric. If we were really terrible, we’d let the fine folks of Scotland Yard know about those Leonardo prints Manchester has hanging up in the house there too._

_Good to know the Alerics have been the ones helping Manchester out, if not disappointing. Some of them are our oldest friends, although if I look at this map-wise, all of those families are closer to the locations of the opposing factions. At any rate, I’m thinking that speaking to them about such a defection will be on a case-by-case basis, depending on what Manchester attempts next. They’re going to do something big because of Ireland and I am willing to bet the family estate and the fact you and Ismene are now living there will come up. (Assumption that those that live there = family head and all.) That will be brought up not in a common court, but more likely in a family argument. Christmas is my guess._

_On the matter of Oliver - excellent! I’m glad he’s finally gotten his lazy ass to do some proper networking - and in Europe even. We need far more friends there, although I’m a little taken aback by him getting along with the Germans so well. Their work ethic could not be any more different. I think that if you can really get him to be serious about his thesis defense this school year, he may be capable of replacing Kayneth on that lecturer seat at Clock Tower. He’s young, so him taking over the department entirely is something that could happen in his lifetime and give us an advantage. It’d be a good reason to permit him the El-Melloi title, especially if Isabella’s serious about taking a year off and doing work in Argentina. I’m glad she’s got the academic thing, but it comes off as too flighty. Not good._

_No comment on Velvet’s experiments and what he’s publishing, but the crummy little extortionist is probably going to keep that stupid blob. Sounds like everything he’s doing is non-reversible._

_I will not be able to attend that gala at the British Museum, for reasons I think you’re aware of. I cannot believe that restraining order still holds. Have fun for me._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

Waver is used to the gaze of a good hundred eyes resting on him in a lecture hall, and with two terms of teaching under his belt, he feels no fear. Whatever judgement is being made about this graduate student sitting on the lecturer’s desk in grey slacks and black t-shirt, well, so be it. When the bells of Clock Tower toll eleven, he clears his throat and grins.

“Welcome to introduction to alchemy. If you were expecting Professor Ioana Starswirl, I apologise. The powers that be assigned her to teach two lectures of this course without realizing that there was a time issue between this and another class. That means that the duty of picking up the slack is mine and mine alone, since I’m one of Starswirl’s graduate students. For those who care to know your lecturer’s name, I’m Waver Velvet. As for those of you who are about to complain that you always get stuck with grad kids teaching the generic stuff, I’m going to kindly ask you to keep that opinion out of earshot for the rest of the term.”

A few small smiles spread through the room, and it’s enough to fuel Waver for the remaining hour and and twenty eight minutes of class as he goes over the syllabus and glosses over the history of alchemy in the magecraft world and in regards to Clock Tower in particular. That no one falls asleep gives him a glow of satisfaction.

The lecture ends with the standard reminder of office hours and inviting students to come down and ask questions if they need to, and as always no one approaches. He chalks the lack of response up to it being the first day of classes and takes his time packing his over the shoulder bag. When everything is in place he slings it over his shoulder and heads out of the hall, only to run into someone loitering in the door. He had noticed the young man at the back of the room the entire lecture, giving Waver a look that might have been the patented Archibald condescending face. Few families had the same blue eyes, blonde hair and exact expression that begged for a punch in the face.

“Excuse me,” Waver says, trying to brush past whatever Archibald is visiting him now. “I have a lab appointment I need to get to.”

“Ah, my apologies,” the new Archibald offers, stepping aside. “You’re quite a good lecturer, you know.”

“Thanks,” Waver mutters, brushing past the man without a further thought. He doesn’t need a name, or really any other information beyond what family the stranger belongs to. Whoever-the-hell Archibald was there to observe Waver and dissect him into the tiniest bits possible. Like Hell Waver was allowing him a chance.

***

_12 October 1998_

_Margaret--_

_I had known about Oliver’s little revelation concerning what Velvet really means to do if handed the El-Melloi title, but I appreciate you repeating it to me just in case. Typical young blooded mage ambition, just wanting teaching authority. No game at all. Oliver’s asked for permission to muck about in Velvet’s research. In writing. Poor boy has the cunning of a sardine. Isabella is proving absolutely preferable, and if we’re going to be making a decision soon, she is the one I would back, traveling whims and all. Still, I understand why we’re waiting, and I don’t mind it. Knowing who I would name and who I need to have back me is more than enough._

_Onto other matters. Manchester’s drowning in legal action from our lawyers, between the looting with the Leonardo, charges of local political corruption - which are entirely true by the way, I was delighted! - and breaking and entering. Turns out that all the arguments they were using against us in court were based on an outdated copy of Sola-Ui’s will that they stole from her flat in Glasgow. Theodore’s furious at being played as he has, to say absolutely nothing of his feelings about the apartment being robbed. (Apparently there are family heirlooms missing. Why the idiot didn’t think to check on that place before is beyond me, but academics are all airheads in their own way.) Give it a few more months and the crest is Ismene’s entirely. You’ll need to move carefully with this for a few years, but that shouldn’t be too much of an issue, hm? At the very least, you won’t have to move._

_The incident from last week with the Lovelace theft did get cleared up. Familiar used by some young blood mage was responsible; I don’t imagine the court is going to even let this go through. The kid involved is about twelve._

_At any rate, I’ll keep you posted on the crest. With the matter settling, the holidays may involve less murder than I previously anticipated. It would be a welcome change, at any rate._

_By the way. Your birthday. When would you like me to come down and what kind of cake would you like? You had that green tea one last year and I’m loathe towards repetition._

_Until then.  
-Bryce_

***

Waver dusts the snow off of the top of his head as he walks into Flammel Hall, grumbling about the weather report somehow missing the fact that it was going to snow today. He lets the snow slough off his boots as he walks down the corridor towards Ioana’s office, pausing in front of her door to brush the remaining flakes off of his thick red wool coat.

“Hi,” he says, walking into the room. “Sorry I’m late. Trains were delayed.”

“It’s fine,” Ioana replies, already seated in her armchair. “I figured that’s what it was. Sit, I want to talk to you about your recent publications.”

Waver marches dutifully over to his own armchair and lets himself be enveloped in the cushions. He’s certain that he’s made a outline of himself in the fabric.

“Since August, you’ve managed to publish an average of five articles a month,” Ioana says, once Waver has finished fighting with the chair over where he was going to sink in it. “Are you sure the speed isn’t compromising your quality of work?”

“I’m certain,” Waver says automatically. “The mercury’s been responsive to most of our tests and I’ve started drafting the presentation for the Prague Association conference in March.”

“Some of the articles are superfluous,” Ioana replies, cradling her coffee mug in her hands. “And I’ve noticed that you’ve been bringing in evocation theory and have a few upcoming publications in those journals. Is there a reason for that?”

“No,” Waver lies. He had found a name for his mysterious Archibald visitor in one or the other evocation publications. Entering his territory seemed only fair, after Waver’s had been violated. “Some of the principles just seemed useful to bring in.”

“I see.” Ioana purses her lips. “How has teaching been going?”

“Well.” Waver is grateful for the change of topic, although Ioana’s disapproval still lingers. “Everyone has a solid B average and a number of them have been coming to my office hours just to chat.”

“Would you mind teaching the course again next term? You won’t have to revise the syllabus.”

“That’d actually be pretty great.” He smiles brightly, leaning forward in his chair. “I can use the next two terms for experimentation too and then spend summer drafting the thesis.”

“I’ll let the department know and have them put it into the course catalog accordingly.” Ioana stretches. “You plan on finishing in the fall of 1999 then?”

“Yes. I take it you need to schedule the defense now?”

“I do,” Ioana replied. “They’ve already printed and posted up the list for next term. It’d be a good idea for you to attend one or two and see what to expect – they’re far more formal affairs than what your undergraduate defense was.”

Waver nods, recalling the number of times he has seen great flocks of students and professors in the clothes of traditional mages flocking into the oldest buildings on campus, muttering amongst themselves and staying put for nearly the whole day. “I’ll do that. Er, are we having the department holiday party this year?”

“We are, but not on campus,” Ioana says gravely. “Last year’s explosion finally tipped the rest of campus that we’ve been drinking profusely in the labs and—“

“—I get the picture,” Waver concludes. “The usual pub then?”

“Starting at nine on Friday, yes. I’ll let it end here, I believe you have the last lecture of the term to go deliver and you should prepare.”

Waver takes a moment to glance at the clock on Ioana’s wall. An hour is more than enough time, but he’ll be grateful all the same for the opportunity to escape the lingering eyes of his advisor. With a cheerful good-bye, Waver sees himself out and towards the graduate student lounge in Flammel Hall, reflecting on the sudden change in his professor’s attitude towards him. Since bringing in the volumen hygradumn, her tone has been sterner than usual and she leaned forward too much. Whenever she paused, he expected a rebuke for something, and Waver had a feeling that he knew what she was holding back. He sighs, stomach sinking at the lecture she hasn’t given him yet, then trudges out into the snow again.

***

_2 February 1999_

_Margaret--_

_As it stands, Wales has dropped all of its support for Manchester and has come back to our side of things. It isn’t as if they really did anything aside from help with Manchester’s legal bills, but it’s progress all the same. A few more months and the matter’s done for good. If we can start the crest implant process in say - June? - then I’ll consider the clusterfuck completely done._

_On the matter of Isabella, I do agree that it’s concerning that she hasn’t contacted anyone in a while. I’m not about to send out a search party, but I will start asking around in the appropriate corners. Weirdly, ~~the sardi-~~ Oliver has been quiet, which I assume means he is either actually preparing to defend his thesis or is plotting an incredibly stupid follow up to some master plan he’s concocted in his head to one-up the little mercury extortionist. As it stands, Clock Tower’s alchemy department just had a break in at their laboratories in the Gladstone building and had a huge amount of data destroyed. Apparently the wards they had up were - well, an alchemist’s level defense, easily breached by summoned djinn and like familiars. I do like to assume that this won’t happen again and that the department will have half of a brain to ensure it, but at least someone has shown a good lack of tolerance for little wannna-be academics. I’m still not comfortable with him taking the title over Isabella, but this is slightly reassuring._

_At any rate, I think the schedule - so long as everything with Manchester settles - will be that crest nonsense is to be settled in June and the title in August, so long as Isabella doesn’t have something terrible happen to her in South America._

_I plan on speaking to the Hawthornes concerning the spearhead looting - I believe that they might have helped facilitate the sale and I know they are anal retentive about documentation. If they have what I think we have, we’ll get a solid conviction and prison sentence_

_In addition, if you and the squirt are planning to do the holiday in Italy thing, I may ask you to do a favour. I understand that the current Strozzi lord is having a spot of issues and they’re a family worth having words with. They have very little tolerance for the typical mage thing, which means I’m ill suited for handling the matter. If you’re not up for doing the Italy thing, no worries, some other family can move in. Regardless, do let me know what you decide and then we can discuss what we need to face to face._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

Waver sighs, plopping himself into one of the great, uncomfortable benches in the defense hall. Aisling had seconded Ioana’s suggestion of watching a few graduate-level thesis defenses in order to prepare for his own, emphasizing that he really needed to learn the format and how the questions went. While Aisling's suggestion had been genuine, Ioana’s had come automatically, with no genuine concern if Waver passed or failed. The break in back in late January had set the entire department on edge - Ioana most of all - and from her sudden distance, it was clear to Waver that she knew that his presence was to blame for it.

The sudden coldness hurt, although it was easy enough to play the problem off to make it look like a disagreement over the direction of Waver’s thesis. After all, a month’s worth of data concerning volumen hydragyrum’s progress had been lost and Ioana had been skeptical of using rubber ducks as solid examples of the blob forming distinct colour preferences. Now, well, even repeating all the experiments had yielded different data, and Waver had to groan at the idea of having to explain that problem at the upcoming Prague Association conference where he’d be presenting for the second time in his life.

“Excuse me,” a voice says,interrupting Waver’s train of thought. “Is anyone sitting here?”

“No,” Waver says automatically, letting the voice’s owner sit beside him. One quick glance at the man’s academic robes confirms that he’s a professor and if the colour of his hood doesn’t lie, a part of the evocation department. It looks like the professor is going to ask Waver something, but the bells of Clock Tower chime the hour in before he can, signaling the start of the thesis defense of Oliver Archibald. When the bells finish, the room falls silent and Oliver begins, but not before making eye contact with the entire room. Waver swears that Oliver offers him a moment’s vicious smile and dares to return it.

Where the head of the department would introduce the candidate in an undergraduate thesis, here the candidate introduces himself and summarizes his work. Waver imagines that it’s so that all assembled understand what is being discussed, but in this case he finds it a tedious run down with Oliver using large words for the sake of coming off as intelligent. Still, Oliver finishes the description within fifteen minutes, and the great round of questioning begins from the assembled five academics on the committee.

At first, the questions are simple - _what did you wish to accomplish with your thesis_ and _why did you design your experiments as you did_ \- but soon the soft questions become something fiercer, nitpicking specific lines and citing them for the whole room, refuting them against other scholars. Waver leans in whenever a particularly complex question is asked, and he has to smile a little when Oliver falters in his response - and he falters often, tripping over his words and um-ing as if he was sitting in meditation rather than fighting for his degree. It goes on for a good two and a half hours, and when the committee declares that it will take a break, Waver flops back into his seat as if he had been an active participant in the discussion.

The man next to him, who Waver had barely noticed until now, gives a wry smile. “First time watching a defense like this, huh?”

“You mean one that’s objectively this bad?” Waver replies, glancing over to see who’s speaking to him. There’s something familiar about the man, now that he actually looks at him rather than his robes – a great head of slowly greying auburn hair with a beard to match and spectacles.

“Indeed,” says the man. “I’m glad that I’m not permitted to be on the panel, actually.”

“Hm?” Waver tilts his head, still struggling to place a name to the man’s face. Then it hits him, and he cringes. “Oh, well, I suppose that him being an Archibald and you being a Sophia-Ri would mean that you’re biased—“

“Precisely so, and I’m glad to see you remember me.”

“You asked plenty of tough questions on my undergrad thesis, professor,” Waver replies. “Although I don’t imagine that you’d do the same for him.”

“You have permission to call me Theodore. And frankly, I’d hold him over hotter coals than this.” Theodore’s voice is pleasant when he says it, as if the alliance between his family and the Archibalds doesn’t exist. “Oliver’s had enough coat tail riding for one lifetime and I’m refusing to give him Kayneth’s old seat in the department until he proves himself capable of stringing two words together.”

“That’s what you would fault him on?” Waver frowns, taking a moment to stand and stretch his legs. “I have more of a problem with what he’s presented. It’s hardly innovative.”

Theodore watches the floor below them, eyes focused on the empty table of the committee. “I can stand mediocrity. Means we can hand the basic classes off to him to teach and all will be well. What I can’t stand is someone who trips over their words in defending themselves.” He glances back to Waver once Waver has sat down again. “When is your inquisition?”

“Fall term,” Waver says. “I’m wrapping up the experiments now and summer is for drafting.” He doesn’t dare mention the break ins. There had been a silent agreement within the entire alchemy department that they were not to be discussed with any other part of the Clock Tower community.

“Mm, smart,” Theodore nods, standing up himself. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get some tea before the session resumes. Good luck finishing your experiments, Waver.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

It’s perhaps too diplomatic a response, but Theodore leaves with a small smile. He doesn’t return when the defense committee comes back in with its decision, but Waver figures Theodore has found better seating. It’s something to contemplate as the head of the group addresses the assembly and announces that Oliver has passed with no corrections and declares the session ended.

Coattails, Theodore had said. Waver smiles grimly at the notion as he exits the gallery and steps outside. The wind causes the academic robes to billow as Waver walks back towards Flammel Hall to change and Waver wonders how much coattails can mean simply mean paying people off and refusing to improve.

***

_22 March 1999_

_Margaret--_

_We are going to ignore Theodore’s request. If he asks why, you can tell him the last time we did something he wanted we ended up with two dead family members and a crisis of succession. No, Velvet is not an option. No, Theodore does not get to make this decision. He does not even get a voice in it anymore if he’s going to make such an asinine suggestion. If he doesn’t like Oliver for the position that’s fine, I understand, but that leaves us with our other option, not the little leg humping puppy who just wants attention and tries to get it by passive aggressively publishing horseshit in dusty old journals. That is final, that is my decision and he can come right to my house and argue with me if he’s got that much of a problem with it. I am not dragging more pointless bullshit into this family - not with what we’ve been dealing with for the past two years and not in this generation._

_In fact I am going to send him a copy of this note and let the shit fly. I do not have the patience for his academic wanking and I most certainly do not have the patience for two academics in this house._

_-Bryce_

***

Alexandria is disgustingly hot and the thought of even breathing in the Egyptian air makes Waver break into a sweat. A part of him is certain that the Sea of Estray holds the conference in August just to see how alchemists survive in intolerable weather.

That the interior of the conference hall has air conditioning is a blessing. The room where the artificial intelligence research team is presenting their findings is an ice cube in all but name and a small, bitter part of Waver notes that the temperature nearly matches the lab’s state of affairs since the break ins at the start of the year. The long, awkward silences between himself and Ioana somehow shifted into a great wall between himself and the rest of the lab, confirming for everyone that he was a reason that the break ins happened. Still, there is a faux feeling of camaraderie as Waver sits up at the panel along with the others, politely listening to Aisling do the introductions and discuss her own work.

When his time comes, Waver nearly grabs a coat that isn’t there, then walks toward the podium. There, a different chill passes through the air and Waver stiffens. He forces himself to focus on the room, smiles, and begins.

“Thank you, Aisling, for that er – whelming – introduction. As my colleague said, whereas her work has been in feeding personality into summoned familiars made of the basic four elements, mine has revolved around using alchemical methods to make already conjured familiars capable of thinking and acting on their own. For my purposes, I have spent a year working with ten liters of mercury that had already been weaponized, under the assumption that if it can be commanded to attack, it can be taught how to reason and make decisions on its own.

“With that said, the image behind me is the subject in question. From the outset, I was certain that—“ Waver’s breath hitches involuntarily. There is a sudden weight on his throat, as if a hand has come to rest on it. He continues. “—Certain that the idea was plausible based on the mercury’s previous design by the late Kayneth Archibald. He designed this mercury to be capable of attacking with fast moving tentacles that could rival the hardness of diamonds and snapping into defense mode immediately after. The requirement for such fluidity made mercury a logical choice, and so that was what I began with. This subject also—“ Waver splutters again, the invisible hand now applying pressure, slowly, but steadily. He would panic more if all eyes in the room weren’t resting on him, trying to figure out what is going on. In his own mind, Waver struggles to determine if the hand choking him involves to a familiar, and once the thought occurs he tries to kick whatever invisible force is holding him by the throat. He hits nothing, but it’s enough to cause the pressure to increase, sending him coughing and spluttering. A frantic hand tries to grip the force around his neck as he chokes out a call for help. In his last moments before blacking out, Waver swears he can hear Ioana yelling from the back of the hall, and then everything goes dark.

Waver comes to in a side room, reasonably certain he’s still in the conference hall. The sofa he’s been slung on is old and worn, and when he tilts his head to look around the room, only Ioana stands there, her arms folded across her chest and rage plain on her face. Waver makes no smart remarks as he sits up and he fights the urge to press his hands to his throat.

“What were you thinking?” Ioana demands, once Waver sits upright and looks at her reproachfully.

“What do you—“ Waver offers meekly, only for his professor to cut him off.

“Trying to get the open lordship the Archibalds have, despite knowing that they’re vicious bastards,” she snaps. “Did you not expect something like what just happened out there?”

“Not—“

“Not really?” Ioana walks over towards Waver and delivers a sharp smack to his face. “Waver, you have dragged the entire research team into your quest for authority, despite knowing magi games are deadly. And don’t say that you did this just for the mystic code you’ve been experimenting with—“

“You said I needed something more than skill and a teaching position to get people to listen to me,” Waver says, not daring to put a hand to his cheek in spite of the sting. “So I took the chance.”

Ioana folds her arms again. “And what more do you have to prove, Waver? That your work is to be taken seriously? That your ridiculous and childish thesis from your undergraduate days is valid? That you’re worth listening to? I want you to think about that room full of alchemists and scholars you were just in and tell me that you need more proof that you’re being taken seriously.”

Waver knows that his response will almost certainly bring down Ioana’s hand again. He takes the risk. “How many people take alchemy seriously? At the end of the day, we’re all still—“

The second slap comes in words. “You grow a thick skin and deal with it. You certainly don’t go about throwing your entire department into your personal quests!”

“I’m sor—“

“Don’t bother apologizing,” Ioana snaps. “I know you’re not sorry for having ambitions. All I want you to do right now is stop and reconsider whether they’re worth being killed over by little snot-nosed, privileged mage brats.”

Waver sits quietly for a moment more, staring at the ground. “How long have you been waiting to reprimand me about this?” he asks it.

“Since you walked in with that mystic code.”

Waver’s left hand moves to rub at the bridge of his nose, letting the air of disappointment crush him. “Did someone take over the panel for me?”

“Aisling managed,” Ioana says dryly. “Take the rest of this conference off, finish your draft and we’ll talk about the fall semester at our next meeting. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Ioana leaves the room at that, satisfied with the answer.

Her command is, in its own way, a relief. Being in Alexandria gave Waver an opportunity that he had barely registered at first, and with his dismissal there is a hidden freedom.

He spends most of Saturday morning sleeping in, waking up to find that his hair has plastered itself to his shoulders in an ugly, frizzy mess. Showering only helps until Waver steps outside into the nearly midday heat, taking his hair from wet to bone dry in a matter of moments. He laughs a little at the ridiculousness of it all and keeps walking, having spent a good twenty minutes flipping through old guide books in the hotel lobby in an attempt to find something to occupy his time away from the conference and then finally deciding on an ancient place to visit.

Kom el-dikka is quiet the way all archaeological sites are, and Waver takes care as he walks around it. There’s no sense of the place’s grandeur - only the footprints of buildings that were likely once painted garish colours, baths that hadn’t been around when Alexander founded the city. Eventually he finds his way to the remains of the auditoria that once lined the ancient street - a collection of lecture halls built to seat maybe thirty, according to the guidebook he purchased on his way in, with one large stone chair for the teacher in question.

He drinks in the familiarity of the room, paying attention to none of the other tourists that walk past. With a small smile, Waver makes his way over to the lowest stone bench and sits, closing his eyes. It’s hard to imagine Rider in a room like this - heck, he’d probably take up the whole space - but Waver can hear Rider’s great thunderous laugh echoing off walls that are no longer there.

Waver lingers in the ancient hall, lost in his own meditation, until one of the site’s guards places a gentle hand on his shoulder and informs him that they will be locking the gates soon. In response, Waver manages a quick apology and heads out, hardly registering the pain that hand on his shoulder caused. It is only once back in his hotel room that he realizes he’s become a lobster, and at that revelation he simply laughs.

***

_23 August 1999_

_Margaret--_

_Yes, yes, I heard about Oliver’s little stunt with his familiar over in Egypt, but I’m not sure why you and Theodore are pitching a fit about this. Oliver’s actions are perfectly in line with what he’s been doing starting with the break ins and he’s demonstrated that he knows how to play these games. He’s not particularly subtle, but he’s also not intelligent. That means he’ll be easily reigned in and molded into what we need. That’s the advantage of an idiot like him._

_Look, I’ve already delayed the decision about the title to accommodate Theodore’s trickery of getting enough family members in favour of even remotely considering Velvet for this, but you being genuinely in favour of this kid is ridiculous. You’re not completely incorrect in saying that whoever it is that gets this title will need to work very closely with Ismene, but I still maintain the position that we need someone whose actions we can predict. Both Oliver and Isabella offer that security. The only thing we are delaying by holding off on the decision at this point is a concrete ending to our issues - something that should have ended when Ismene was given the crest back in July._

_If I need to make a chart to outline pros and cons to everyone involved here, I will not hesitate to do so. You are all proving it painfully necessary._

_Please keep me updated with the crest progress - I believe there are two parts left, correct? I want to talk to Ismene about a few things too, now that she’s accepted this new role. Let me know when is best for you, ideally some weekend in September. The case in Ireland might be done by then and we can drink to its conclusion. Manchester’s still under investigation, so no point in celebrating until we have serious charges._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

Working in earnest on finishing his thesis draft also makes it easier for the lab to continue research. Waver checks in every other week with Aisling on the phone to find out about progress in her own work and to confirm the lack of break ins. She informs him that they’ve stopped and catches him up on the lab’s progress, inviting him back whenever Waver gives a wistful sigh. He always refuses on the ground of needing to finish his work, and she accepts the excuse.

The few meetings he has with Ioana are tense. The first time he sees her after returning from the conference, he half expects to be yelled at again for bringing the volume hydragum with him, but receives no reprimand. Ioana only asks after the first few chapters of his thesis, takes the printed out pages from Waver, then mentions that the opportunity to teach the alchemical theory course is still available. Waver accepts it and says no more. Their second meeting revolves around data analysis, and the third is simply clearing things up before the term begins and handing Waver a draft full of corrections to be made. Waver doesn’t flip through them or dare offer a discussion on what is to be done - he only nods and slips back to the British Library, volume hydragum rolling behind him in his wake.

Things lighten slightly during the term. While Waver refuses to step onto the Clock Tower campus without the mercury beside him, he finds it useful for discussing and demonstrating various alchemical principles. The volume hydragum’s intelligence is capable of knowing to transform without Waver having to command it to do so and it leaves most of the lecture hall gaping in amazement every time. It’s enough to make Waver crack a tired smile and prompt him to check into the labs again.

To his delight, nothing has changed and his presence goes unnoticed for a while as he lingers beside the door, casting his eyes over the scene. There are new students, of course, running back and forth in the ever noble roles of gophers. A cluster of water familiars slosh in a few brightly coloured buckets in the middle of the room, where Aisling stands, chatting merrily with them until she notices Waver out of the corner of her eye.

“Come here!” she yells over the sudden sound of spellcraft from the far corner.

Waver hesitates for a moment before walking over towards Aisling. Once he’s in hearing range, she only smiles more. “Nice of you to show your face again, Waver!”

“I was trying to finish up my first draft,” he lies, eyes resting on the familiars’ buckets. “Going to tell me what you’ve got here?”

“Three water-based familiars, capable of a few logic tests and—“ Aisling starts, tripping over her own words, “watch this.” She looks down at all three familiars. “Show me anger.”

In response, the water from all three buckets rises up, twisting and turning into a perfect tidal wave that doesn’t quite ever come crashing down atop them. “Show me calm!” Aisling commands, and the water dissipates into mist, surrounding them both. “Okay, tell me how you feel now--“

With that, the familiars separate into three distinct columns of water for a moment before changing shape again. One becomes a small column of mist, a second returns to its bucket, and a third becomes a puddle on the ground, resting in a perfect circle. Waver lets out a low whistle, then grins over at Aisling. “That’s amazing! How’d you get that to code properly?”

“I had to summon them in groups of three to make a complete personality,” Aisling says, “But it’s progress—“

“How’d you work around the snag you were complaining about, with the limited expression set?”

“The conference actually raised some questions about my research that I ended up having to answer,” she admits with a sheepish grin. “Once I answered them, I was able to fix things. How’s your draft going?”

“I have one final run through before I hand it over to my committee. I’ll be done on Halloween.”

Aisling nods. “And your defense date?”

“The twenty fifth of November.”

“I’ll be there,” Aisling says brightly. “Bit early for a defense though, isn’t it? Term doesn’t end for a while afterwards.”

“I know, but it gives me some time to relax and see if I can do a post-graduate position somewhere. Prague, maybe, since they’re an alchemically based organization.”

The familiars slosh about as they talk, likely their equivalent of fidgeting from lack of attention. “Why not look here instead?” she asks. “The lab’s weird without you.”

“It’s weird not being in it,” Waver admits with a pained smile. “Maybe after my defense I can come back in and give you a hand.”

“I’ll hold you to that offer.”

“Please do,” Waver says. “I need to go to my office hours – I’ll see you later.”

“Have fun with the undergrads!” Aisling calls after Waver cheerfully, watching him walk out of the labs.

As always is the case in October, no one comes to office hours, and so Waver spends the time reading over Ioana’s final corrections to his thesis. With luck, he might be able to head to the library and make the final edits tomorrow. Once the two hours he always leaves open for students passes by without interruption, Waver heads home to Reading.

***

_27 October 1999_

_Margaret--_

_While I’m relieved to hear that the last pains of crest implantations have passed for the squirt, I’m not happy about everything else. Okay, yes the ten years of prison in the Irish court case thrills me, as do the corruption charges up in Manchester, but now you’ve made this title nonsense into a bigger issue than it ever needed to be._

_I understand your argument concerning strength, but I do not think that is a compelling enough case to ditch Oliver and Isabella. Ismene is our strength, whoever the lord is will be a mere background prop. With our candidates being the ages that they are, Ismene will be able to pick the third Lord El-Melloi who will work with the 11th and 12th heads of the house and then strength can be a factor. Caution is to be urged for this generation, and I am shocked that you’re so willing to take this risk._

_Here’s run down as I see it between the three and what will happen if each are given the rest, in relation to Ismene._

_Isabella: Harder to control, flightier, but skilled in networking. She’ll be able to connect with older families and easily, due to having a fairly likeable personality. Ismene won’t have issues getting along with her and having two very strong women always turns heads._  
Oliver: Easily controlled, easy to use his lecturer seat at Clock Tower to listen into present goings on. Ismene will be able to yell at him to do nearly anything needed, although his lack of subtly is a potential issue.  
Velvet: Unpredictable and ambitious in a pedestrian manner. He won’t bow to an eight year old because he has little love of tradition and and no loyalty to the family. The only way to bind him would be using the title, and I don’t think that’s enough currency. Ismene will have to work him hard to make him bend, and that’s a waste of energy that could be used on other things. 

_I’ll see you in early December to make the decision. Please consider these things carefully - I’d like to discuss them with you some time next month with Ismene there as well. She should have a say in this too, since whoever it is that takes this title will be working beside her more than anyone else in this family._

_Until then  
-Bryce_

***

There is nothing cowing about the defense room as Waver approaches it, dressed in his black academic robes with gold hood, thesis and motorboard tucked under his left arm. He dreamed last night of desert sands, olive oil and laurel, and he knows that no omen is more reassuring than that. The examination room - cold stone and elaborate columns with designs that might have been in fashion before William became King of England - inspires no fear, only calm.

Waver does not try to identify familiar faces. His nerves are not alight now and he sees no reason to tempt them towards that state. He simply sits behind the single table afforded to him until the bells of Clock Tower toll in the hour and the five members of his defense committee file in.

He knows each and every one of them. Professor Starswirl, of course, leads the pack. She is followed by two members of the Prague Association who are noted for their own AI work, another member of the Sea of Estray and a member of the evocation department who Waver knows he has had a few courses with. He wonders, vaguely, if Professor Sophia-Ri appointed that particular professor, but is cut off by Ioana’s words announcing the start of the examination. It’s the cue for Waver to rise to his feet, and he does so, approaching the bench where the committee sits and exchanging the formal opening words. They’re scripted, and so they speak of the great honour to be given a chance to have his work heard and of hope that the committee will find his offerings pleasing in all aspects. Waver wonders if they were earnest when they were written, then gives the fifteen minute summary of his work.

When he finishes, the first question comes. “What did you wish to accomplish with your thesis?”

“As an undergraduate, I wished to see what common science might have to teach us. As a graduate, I wished to take what I learned in that thesis and apply it in a way that would be practical. Making use of existing familiars and imbuing artificial intelligence seemed a route that any mage could accomplish, so long as there was sufficient instructions to make it happen, and in experimenting with the volumen hydragyrum, I sought to find an answer so that I might come to instruct others in my path.”

It’s a flowery answer, one that Ioana would yell at him for if he wrote it. It’s with a smile that he knows the committee eats it up based on their eyes and eyes alone. Such a reaction powers him forward through lofty rhetoric to repeating statistics from his experiments off the top of his head, through arguing with one of the alchemists from Prague over a particular niggling piece of data that he had barely addressed because it was an outlier with no impact upon the overall experiment. It drags on and on until the familiar closing lines of the committee echo through the chambers.

“Does anyone else on this bench have any further questions of our defendant?” Ioana asks. Each member of the group takes their turn to say no. “This committee declares the defense over, clocking in at three hours and four minutes precisely. We will reconvene in half an hour with the results. Until then, all in this room may recess.”

Waver does not sit until the committee has left the room, and once they’re gone, he makes for the chair that sits behind the examinee’s desk. No one approaches him in his silence, and Waver is content to sit patiently, letting his mind be empty for half an hour. It aches, but it is easy enough to ignore until he returns home.

When the committee returns, Waver stands, waiting for the session to be called to order again. It’s a step out of line with the ritual - he should wait to be called to stand before the bench again - but no one comments on it. When the room silences, Ioana begins the last portion of the proceedings.

“Waver Velvet, please approach the bench.” She gives the customary pause, then continues. “It is after great deliberation between the five members of this committee that we are pleased to say that your thesis passes with no corrections. With that said, let it be known that the magi of Clock Tower now confer all respects and honours that come with the degree of master magus of alchemy.” For a moment, Waver can swear that there’s a glow of pride in Ioana’s words, something that have been missing for a year and a half. “This defense committee now declares itself dissolved and the results may be entered into the official Clock Tower records. All assembled are dismissed.”

Waver smiles as the bench again files out of the room, but he does not go to collapse into his chair again. Instead he makes for the doors that lead out of the exam room and then the building, stepping into the grey November daylight. He’s rushed from behind by Aisling, who all but sends him flying in her excitement.

“You did it!” she yells as Waver lands in a neat pile of leaves. “Oh, shit, sorry—“

“Yeah, I did,” Waver says into the leaf pile, taking a moment to pick himself up. “Are you looking for an excuse to go drinking?”

“Well duh—“ Aisling says, only for Ioana to cut her off with an authoritative throat clearing noise.

“Velvet, before you go drinking, I would like to speak with you,” she says, offering a hand off the ground. Waver takes it after a moment’s uncertainty.

“Can we reschedule it for after my next lecture?” he asks Aisling as Ioana begins to lead him off. “I’m sleeping all day tomorrow.”

“Got it!” Aisling calls back.

Ioana continues to walk them both towards Flammel Hall, continuing on in silence until they’re in the safety of her office. There’s a wordless permission that Waver has to shrug off his academic dress once inside, and Ioana does the same. They resume their usual seats once the black robes are in piles on the floor, and the disapproval is gone from her voice.

“You did well,” she says.

“Thank you,” Waver replies, all but melting into the familiar armchair. “For everything.”

“And you are welcome for everything,” Ioana says. “Have you given any thought as to what you will do next?”

Waver nods his head, feeling his body pushing the lower cushion of the chair outward. “Prague has some post-grad research slots open that I might apply for. I imagine that references won’t be an issue.” It’s as much as he dares ask from Ioana now.

“No, they won’t.” Waver almost expects a familiar indulgent grin on his professor’s face and has to sigh when it is isn’t. Ioana clicks her tongue softly, dismay echoing in the noise. “You think I’m still mad about the lordship business?”

“You’re disappointed.”

“You’re right in that judgement,” Ioana admits, not bothering to sound apologetic about it. “But that is not the matter at stake here. I can write you letters of recommendation for Prague.”

“Thank you,” Waver ventures carefully. He knows that there are post-graduate positions in the labs in Clock Tower, but to ask for one of those is to lose even this small amount of good favour. Besides, living in the Czech Republic might provide a new perspective.

Ioana murmurs a faint “You’re welcome” and nods in dismissal. Waver sees himself out after gathering up his academic gown in his arms. It’s a short trip from Ioana’s office to the grad bays and once he’s messily shoved the gown into one of his desk drawers, he resolves to head home.

***

_20 December 1999_

_Margaret--_

_Fine._

_Do it on your own time, in private. Don’t make it into a grand gathering, don’t bother having the rest of the family there, just do it and get it over with. And don’t invite him to Christmas - he’s the pet dog, not family._

_-Bryce_

***

The first weekend after the end of term is a quiet one, one that Waver spends in bed, head smooshed into his pillow and curled under a pile of duvets. It isn’t until the phone rings at one in the afternoon that he awakes, and even then it takes five rings for him to locate the cordless phone that has slipped under his bed.

“Hello?” he manages, voice thick and exhausted.

Nothing could prepare him for hearing the voice of Margaret Archibald on the other end of the line saying hello. The whole thing becomes weirder when she asks, “Waver? Do you have a moment?”

“Yes?” The question isn’t enough to truly wake him, but Waver’s mind rumbles, trying to shift to alertness.

“Did I call at a bad time?”

“No, I just—“ Waver holds the phone away from his mouth so that he can yawn. “I just woke up from a nap.”

“I’m sorry to wake you then,” Margaret apologises, “but I was wondering if you were busy today? There’s a matter that needs to be discussed, now that you’ve completed your thesis.”

Waver swears his entire body jolts awake with the power not even fifty shots of espresso could manage. “What do you need me to do?”

“Can you come to the house today?”

“Er—“ Waver says, feeling something heavy sink in his chest. “I don’t drive.”

“Ah,” Maragret says knowingly. “That’s fine, I’ll have our driver come get you.”

There’s nothing to say to that sort of a statement, and Waver lets Margaret hear him gawk. She laughs at the noise. “It’s no problem at all, Waver, although I admit that - hm, where are you?”

“Reading,” he mutters.

“Icklesham to Reading is a good two and a quarter hours,” Margaret concludes after doing a quick mental calculation. “Shame for our driver then. I’ll send him your way immediately. What’s your address, Waver?”

Waver gives his address almost automatically, before he can protest that this is all really too much and he can just take the damn train into London and then head towards the Archibald home. Margaret steamrolls over his attempts immediately afterwards, telling him just to be ready and then hanging up. It gives Waver two hours to shower and dress himself, and he does so in a flailing mess of arms and legs.

He has his dark grey conference suit on and long hair tied back in a neat ponytail by the time a generic BMW saloon shows up outside his apartment building. Waver rushes down the steps to meet it, taking a moment to apologise profusely to the driver for having to make such a trip. The driver accepts the apology with a small smile, noting that he has run far stranger errands before, and the two settle on listening to BBC Radio 1 the entire ride.

Nothing prepares Waver for seeing the Archibald residence. It is firmly Elizabethan in design, with incalculable amount of windows and faded tan exterior, and the great gardens that lead up to it are intricately designed. He knows the symbols embedded in the house well - that the owners can make nature itself confirm to their will, and those approaching had best do the same. He can’t smile at the thought, but he does his best to manage once he’s inside the main foyer. Magaret is there waiting for him, greying blonde hair pulled into a neat braid and a simple blue dress that flatters her hips. She offers a hand to Waver immediately, and he knows to take it. Nothing about her manner is similar to Bryce’s, and it’s a relief all its own. 

“It’s nice to finally see you in person,” she says, and the gentle smile that follows is genuine. 

“I’m sorry to have sent your drive all over the south of England,” Waver offers.

“It’s what we pay him for, Waver,” Margaret replies, letting go of his hand. “I suppose you know why you’re here, correct?” She gestures Waver to follow after her before he gives an answer, leading him deeper and deeper into the Archibald house.

“If its acceptance or rejection, I’m just glad that you’ve decided to do it in person,” he says. The walls of the corridor that they walk down are perfectly modern, painted a bright orange and covered in various awards and certificates of membership to this or that association. Ioana’s comments about trophy rooms pop into Waver’s head, and he smiles at the thought.

“I thought it was only fair,” Margaret says, walking into a sitting room whose great bay windows look out into the Archibald backyard. It is as magnificent as the front lawn, with matching elaborate gardens whose evergreens and hedges are still bright with plantlife in the fading fall night. 

For the first time, Waver realizes that they are not the only ones in the room. Seated on one of the oversized plush sofas towards where the door sits is a young girl, dressed in a bright purple skirt and black top, looking at Waver with familiar blue eyes and an expression of mild curiosity.

“This is the one I picked, mum?” she asks in a haughty tone that Waver has only heard out of much older mages.

“It is,” Margaret replies, nudging Waver softly. “Waver, this is my daughter Ismene, now the tenth head of the family. Ismene, this is Waver Velvet.”

There is something in Ismene’s manner that suggests not bowing his head slightly is a large mistake, and so Waver makes sure to do the gesture in deference rather than react to the words. Ismene, in response, only lets out an unsatisfied huff.

“He seemed more interesting on paper! Small, maybe stocky with some sort of muscle to him not, not big and crane like.”

Nothing about that sentence surprises Waver, but he lets Margaret handle the statement. 

“You can’t assume anything about a mage by their resume,” Margaret says, taking a seat beside her daughter on the sofa.

“Well then, I recognize your deeds to the Archibald family,” Ismene says, and it’s shocking how authoritative an eight year old can sound. “But since you were only making up for what you caused in the first place, you better serve me for your entire life, got it?”

“I understand and I will do so.” It’s a simple vow to make, one that could be taken far too lightly. Waver smiles with the gravity the situation truly merits, goes so far as to bow to the child he has pledged everything to for the sake of a place to start. He’ll have to cancel his plans to move to Prague now and bully his way back into Clock Tower, but that shouldn’t be too hard now. Without missing a beat, Waver’s eyes flicker with excitement and he adds, “With your support, I will move us all forward.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Title comes from The Wire: "Fitzgerald said that there were no second acts in American lives. He's saying that the past is always with us. And where we come from, what we go through...how we go through it, all that shit matters."  
> *Travel times from Clock Tower to anywhere are based off the use of the Tottenham Court Road tube station, since canon states that the campus is near the British Museum.  
> *London is a very expensive city to reside in, and so having Waver be a commuter made more sense when moving out of the dorms.  
> *Terms at Clock Tower mirror Oxford University’s term schedule. Waver, initially, was due to graduate one term early because he’s an overachiever like that.  
> *[Kom El-Dikka](http://quod.lib.umich.edu/cgi/p/pod/dod-idx?c=icp;idno=7523866.0025.158) and its [lecture hall](http://farm5.staticflickr.com/4093/4763971041_1804fffd10_z.jpg)  
> *With INFINITE thanks to Penitence Road for the beta, her patience and the amount of hand holding she endured in helping bring this thing into its finished state.


End file.
